Your Heart Is Mine
by Jack Colquitt
Summary: Ten years after the brutal massacre of his family, Stan Marsh returns to the New York City to claim what is rightfully his. What he doesn't see coming, however, is the rekindling of his feelings for his childhood love. AU, eventual Style.
1. The Roaring Twenties

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.**

**Notice: this is a rather short prologue chapter that provides some backgrounds of the fic, which is set in an AU. Although it's not terribly long, those who don't savor a chapter consisting solely of descriptions might want to jump to the next one, where the real story begins. I promise it WILL get more interesting as it progresses. Enjoy!**

**XxXxX**

**Prologue: the Roaring Twenties**

With the war to end all wars came the glorious days of America.

While the industries in the continental Europe were left in shambles and the power of the great empires across the Atlantic was in decline, the former English colonies in North America emerged as the industrial powerhouse for the world. The 1920s was the era of unprecedented economic growth and prosperity for most Americans. Where there's light, however, shadow comes along.

When the new Amendment to the Constitution prohibited manufacturing and selling alcohols, the U.S. government belatedly realized that the new law did nothing more than to move the alcohol-dealing businesses into the underground. As the lowlifes on the street sniffed at the smell of the increased profit for moonlighting, it didn't take long for the entire country to be engulfed in widespread, frequent, and everlasting turf wars between newly-emergent Mafias vying for the ultimate power to control the flow of money. The New York City, by the way, was no exception. In fact, it was an example of how far Mafia influence could go in a city.

By the time of the early 1920s, the city was in control of five different families, or clans, which engaged in illegal producing and selling of liquors and perhaps more importantly, doing dirty requests from people who wanted to make profit, receive protection, seek financial liquidation, or sometimes "silence" those they didn't like.

The largest and most powerful of them all, the DeLornes, consisted mainly of French descendants and their allies in the city who built a formidable empire all across Manhattan. Rumors had it that they were paid frequent visits from all kinds of politically influential figures, some of them hailing from the Capitol itself. Their leader who went by the name of the Mole was the person that everyone living in the city feared. Raised as an orphan, he quickly ascended the ladder of power within the clan and assumed the position of acting godfather when his processor was found dead in his room, but with no signs of struggle, illness, or poisoning. People suspected that the Mole himself was behind the strange death of the former godfather, but no one had the guts to put their theory in test. All of those who voiced the slightest doubt to the new leader's rule of the clan mysteriously disappeared never to be seen again. Holding fast to his position of power, the Mole became a ruthless ruler of Manhattan who didn't shy away from abusing and harassing people for their money and allegiance.

The foremost rivals of the DeLornes were the Marshes who controlled a large part of the Bronx, bordering Manhattan directly in southwest. Despite being the one of the most powerful Mafia lords in the city, Randall Marsh, the leader of the family, was actually received very well by the local residents under his family's control. The Marshes were well known for their lenient style of collecting dues and protection fees, and they enforced a strict 'hurt-no-civilians' rule in all of their operations. As a result, more and more locals at the borderline between Manhattan and the Bronx turned their back on the brutal DeLornes and defected to the other side. Rumors said that this aggravated the Mole beyond belief.

The Tuckers were in control of the area spanning through the whole Queens. Led by Craig Tucker, they tended to remain strictly neutral on most of the disputes between other clans. Although Craig had been close friends with Randall since they were very young, he distanced himself from the Marshes so as not to be dragged into unnecessary clashes of interests. The Tuckers and the Marshes, however, shared on thing in common: they only accepted Whites to their membership.

The Blacks, whose name adequately described their demographical characteristic, built their own reclusive community at Brooklyn. They rarely ventured outside their territory and were known for being overly protective of their borders. Token Black, their leader, was said to have a cozy relationship with Craig Tucker as well.

The weakest of the five families, the Petuskis, were once the only Mafia clan in the city that dominated the entire flow of cash, alcohols, and drugs within the city limit. When a series of power struggles weakened the clan after the untimely death of their godfather, however, the other clans united and staged a coup that dethroned the family. The Petuskis then fled the mainland and took refuge at distant Staten Island. Although their new leader worked his best to reclaim the glory that his family once commanded, they were becoming more and more irrelevant as time went by. They now operated as mercenaries who always stood with the highest bidder, not hesitating a single second to betray their allies when the situation turned negative.

Aside from a few physical clashes along the borderlines of their territory, the five clans maintained a delicate balance of power among themselves. No one family was powerful enough to topple all the other clans united. The situation had stayed that way for more than three years, and people had little reason to believe that it was going to change anytime soon.

Many residents at the Bronx, and certainly all those who have been living there for more than ten years, remembered a magnificent house that used to be at 609 Elm Street. Statues of angels and saints carved out of marbles were protruding out of the building's great, white walls. Surrounding the premise was a large and truly-magnificent-to-behold garden filled with exotic plants and a small fountain at the center of it. Not many people had the opportunity to venture into the house heavily guarded by men in black suit, heavily armed in machine guns and pistols. According to the lucky few that did, however, the inside of the house was actually better than it looked from the outside. Chandelier was hanging from the ceiling, and the hallway was romantically lit by hundreds of candles. Each room was adorned in different kinds of wallpapers that displayed flowers, constellations, and paintings by well-known artists. The dining room was so large that it could accommodate more than a hundred people at the same time, and the building was constantly occupied with dozens of butlers and maidens scurrying along busily as they prepared meals, did the laundry, and kept the place free of dirt. In other words, it was nothing short of a small palace. The building belonged to the Marshes, one of the Mafia families that ruled the city. No one very really doubted that it was going to be standing there for a very long time, generations after generations.

It was no wonder, therefore, that people were shocked to behold the scene that they had never expected to see. People gathered around the fence of the once beautiful place, now ablaze with fire. They could hear shouting voices and gunfire erupting from inside the building. When they saw a large number of cars parked just outside the house in a line, they finally came into a grab with the reality: the Marshes were hit by another group of Mafias. Judging from the model of the cars, they belonged to the DeLornes. A few police cars arrived at the scene after receiving a distress call, but no one dared to risk their lives by entering the premise that belonged to the Mafias. All they could do was watch as the house slowly turned into ashes.

August 4, 1924.

It was the day the Bronx lost the big, white building at 609 Elm Street.

It was the day the balance of power in the New York City collapsed.

It was the day the world of an eight-year-old boy named Stan Marsh turned upside down.

And it was the day this whole story began.

**XxXxX**

**A/N:**

**This is an experimental fic that deviates significantly from the usual fluffs. Rest assured: there is romance. It's a Style fic, after all. I'm getting the impression that this might be one of those unpopular fics that nobody really cares to read, but I'm more or less committed to finishing the story regardless of people's reactions. It would feature many of the recurring characters, and I'm trying to keep each character's distinguishing personalities and features as intact as possible.**

**As you may have noticed, English is not my first language. I was born—and still live—in a dirt-poor shithole far away from America and as a result didn't get an opportunity to be properly educated in the language. The so-called English teachers here cannot even order a Whopper with cheese meal by themselves. Bottom-line: incorrect grammars, overused phrases, limited vocabulary, and indeed, historical inaccuracies are to be expected. I'll do my best, however, to make each chapter of the fic as presentable as possible. Thank you, and please proceed to the next chapter, if you wouldn't mind. Any feedbacks and comments would be greatly appreciated, and I don't say this for just a procedural purpose.**

**Oh, by the way, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! Let's hope the Mayans were wrong when making calendars.**

**Regards,**

**-Jack Colquitt.**


	2. Do You Fear Death?

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.**

**T/W: Character death.**

**XxXxX**

**Chapter One: Do You Fear Death?**

Inside the fiery building was a woman running across the hallway in a desperate attempt to evade the intruders. She was wearing an expensive-looking dress which was now covered in burnt marks and splattered blood. She almost tripped when she accidentally stepped on the loose end of the dress but barely managed to maintain her balance and kept running until her lungs felt like they were burning up. There was only one thing that she could think right now: to save her eight-year old son who was now cuddling up inside her arms.

As she reached the end of the hallway, she took a left turn and opened the door facing her. It revealed a storage room with brooms and mops standing against the wall neatly in order. Without any light bulb or candlelight, the only thing that brightened the place up was the light from the outside pouring through the open door. After looking around the place, the woman put the boy down from her arms.

"Mom, what's happening?" The boy whined, not fully understanding the significance of the things that were happening around him. "I'm scared."

"Stanley, I need you to listen very, very, carefully." The mother gently stroked the charcoal hair of his son that she just called Stanley and whispered to him. "There are some very bad guys out there and they want to hurt us. Now, I will go to your dad to help him beat these people. Meanwhile, I want you to stay here and not to make any noise until I come back. Do you understand, Stan?"

She was lying. She was Sharon Marsh, the wife to the Godfather of the family, Randall Marsh. She was fully aware that there was nothing that his husband could do at the moment. In fact, she wasn't even sure if he was still alive. The Marshes were outnumbered by ten to one, and they couldn't call for the help of other members of the family because the phone line had been cut off by someone. The DeLornes had it completely planned, and the unsuspecting Marshes were caught off-guard by their well-calculated raid. It was all done for. The newspapers and newsreels at the theater tomorrow would surely report the sudden demise of one of the five Mafia clans that ruled the city. And there was nothing anyone could do to stop it.

But the unfortunate downfall of the clan had no place in Sharon's mind now. In fact, she could hardly care about it. The only thing mattered to her was the fate of her son. She was ready to give her own life up to increase the chance of his Stan surviving this horrible incident. She was planning to be a living decoy, leading the assailants away from the storage room where Stan would be hiding. The room was covered in tiles and there was running tap water in the room, making the place relatively safe from the fire that was eating away the entire building now. The thought that this would be the very last moment that she would be able to see her son ever gave her immeasurable pain. That, however, did not change the fact that there was no other option.

"Don't leave me here alone, mom," There was, of course, no way that an eight-old-year boy would understand what was going on in Sharon's mind. Stan didn't give up imploring, thinking that she would change his mind and take him back again in her soft arms if he insisted enough. "I'm so afraid. What if they find me?"

Sharon made her best effort not to cry in front of her son, which indeed required superhuman effort. But a mother is stronger than a woman. Somehow, she managed to force a smile on her face to calm the boy down. "Oh, sweetie, don't worry. As long as you stay here, they are never gonna find you. As soon as I find your dad, I'll come back to get you out of here. Then we can be together again."

Stan pouted and stared at his mom for a second. "…You promise?"

"Yes, sweetie. I promise." She was lying again.

"Ok, then." The boy finally gave up and sat on the floor. She was the one who always taught him to keep every promise he made. In return, she always kept her promises with him. There had been no one incident where she tricked or cheated on him. He thought this time, too, would not be an exception.

"That's my boy." She, then, heard the sound of rapid footsteps quickly approaching to where they were. There was no time to waste. "Stan, no matter what happens, I love you. I love you more than anything else in the world."

The boy tried to say that he loved her too, but Sharon shut the door closed even before he could open his mouth. He then heard the footsteps of his mom going away from him. It was at that moment that he realized that he should have asked her to buy him a teddy bear as a reward for being a good, observant boy. He noted to himself to ask her for it when she comes back.

Stan sat there in the dark room for several minutes waiting for his mom to come back. The wait was becoming longer than he expected, and certainly too long for his taste. As he was hardly holding himself from the urge to open the door only slightly to peek outside, he heard the voice of an unfamiliar male, with a very deep voice.

"You sure you checked every room?" he was talking to another person.

"Yeah, I'm sure. Let's just get out of here, man. This whole place's gonna burn down in any minute." The second man responded rather anxiously. His voice was much shallower and sounded timid compared to the first man.

"No, the Mole told us to hunt down every living thing inside this house. We have to be absolutely sure. You know he doesn't like sloppy jobs, man." The deep throat insisted. Judging from the sound, they were heading exactly towards his direction.

Stan blocked his mouth with both of his hands, his eyes gone wide in fear. It was not the promise that he made with his mom that made him do that. Rather, the pure human instincts told him that the bad guys surely would find him out and probably kill him if he made any noise. He stayed completely still in a sitting position, praying that the bad guys outside the door would go away soon.

Then he heard a louse thudding noise from outside.

"Dude, fuck this. The ceiling's coming off. If there is anyone left, they're all gonna die when this whole building collapses. I'm my holding my neck out for this stupid shit." The second man now was clearly aggravated.

"Maybe you're right." The first man agreed. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Stan felt immense relief at that. The bad guys would just go away. What they said about the building burning down and the ceiling coming off worried him a little, but nothing scared him more than the two men just outside the room waiting to kill him. The footsteps that the two men were making were now quickly disappearing in the distance. Maybe he was safe, for now.

_AAAGH_!

It was right then, however, that Stan heard the most terrible thing that he had ever heard in his lifetime: a woman screaming at the top of her lungs in utmost pain. It didn't take long before the boy realized that the voice sounded uncomfortably familiar. Within seconds, he registered the person that the voice belonged to.

It belonged to his mom, Sharon Marsh. Although he had never heard her scream like that before, he couldn't be surer about that. She was his mom. A boy never mistakes his mom for another person.

"Mom!" Stan, not being able to contain himself anymore, yelled for his mom and bolted outside the room. Unfortunately for him, the two guys in black suits who had been jogging towards the stairs leading to the grand entrance of the house on the first floor looked back at the sound and noticed the boy that appeared out of nowhere.

"It's that kid, the son of Randall." the first man with deep throat acknowledged him. "get him, Tommy, quick!"

The second man who was just called Tommy, however, didn't have to hurry to catch the kid. Instead, the boy himself ran towards him, yelling: "Get me back my mommy!"

When Stan got near the two guys, the one called Tommy snatched him and held the collar of the boy to lift him in front of his eyes. "Lemme go!" Stan flailed helplessly to escape from the grasp, but to no avail.

"Good job, Tommy. Now hold him still right there." The deep throat cocked his machine gun and pointed it to the right temple of the boy held in the air by Tommy. He formed an evil grin on his face as he slowly pulled the trigger.

"Wait, wait, wait," Tommy then realized what the deep throat was doing and pushed his gun away by using his other, unoccupied hand. "Are you seriously going to kill him? Look at him! He's just a boy, man!"

"Tommy, don't say you forgot." The deep throat preached. "The Mole gave us an explicit order to kill every living being in this house. We even killed the girl, for God's sake! The boy has to go, too."

_Wait, the girl? Were they talking about Shelly? Did they just say they killed her?_

"What have you done to Shelly!" then, Stan hit the Tommy guy with his fist, using every last bit of power left in his body. The fist first met his nose, and then slipped to hit one of his eyes in the end. Tommy groaned as the wave of immense pain hit him and covered his injured eye with his both hands, thus letting go of the boy in the process. Freed from the forceful hands, Stan ran towards the stairs as quickly as he could.

"You son of a bitch, stop right there! I'll, _argh," _the deep throattried to follow and shoot him with the gun held in his hand but then was tripped by distraught Tommy's foot and fell on the ground with a loud thud. Stan, fully utilizing this opportunity apparently given by God himself, descended the stairs with his best speed, jumping over two, three, or even four steps of stairs at one time.

_I have to get out of this place first_, he thought while running, _and then I should call my uncles to help me find my mom and dad_.

By uncles, he meant the middle bosses and thug lords who served under his dad's command. Uncle Kenny, uncle Pip, uncle Butters and uncle Eric had been the most faithful servants of his father Randall, and each of them was followed by at least a dozen other people who knew how to fight. To Stan, there was no one on this planet who could beat those four people, especially when aided by his own father.

As he reached the end of the stairs and ran towards the entrance of the house, he noticed that the two guys that he met previously were not the only ones visiting the premise. In fact, they were hardly alone. Standing near the entrance to the building were at least three dozens of scary people in black suits, each armed in guns and pistols. They were all turning their backs on Stan, apparently trying to leave the house. He remembered that the uncles and all the other guys on his side (and therefore, on the "good" side) used to don similar outfits, although the color of the suits was slightly different: it was more greenish than he remembered. There was, however, no way an eight-year-old kid to understand the fact the tiny little different color represented the division of friends and foes.

_Finally_, he thought, _the uncles came to the help_!

"Uncles!" Stan shouted as he bumped into a figure who was walking towards the entrance. Alarmed by the sudden impact, the figure turned around to identify the source of the clash.

The man that Stan just bumped into stared down at the boy. His hair was messy grey, and his face wore numerous scars all in different sizes. The sides of his eyes were wrinkled, and his eyes wore a heavy bag, which would normally indicate that the person was extremely tired. For this person only, though, it was rather a permanent feature that he kept for all eternity. The most distinguishing characteristic of him, however, was the fact that he was the only one smoking. He dragged another puff at the cigarette that he held between the index and middle fingers on his right hand.

"Who iz it." He inquired.

Or, it rather sounded more like a statement because he didn't raise the tone at the end of his sentence. His remark caught the attention of others, all of whom turned around to stare at the boy as well. It was then that Stan realized none of the faces looking at him was familiar. He stepped backwards a little, trying to understand who they were and what they were doing in his house.

Before any of them could say anything, however, the deep throat and the guy called Tommy loudly ran downstairs and stood several feet away from the cigarette-smoking man.

"I'm sorry, sir. We tried to catch him, but he ran away." The deep throat said, panting hard from the running. "He seems to be Randall's son. Named Stanley or something"

Upon hearing that, Stan could see the eyes of the cigarette-smoking man stir. But his face reassumed the normal, tired-looking appearance soon.

"Please feel free to correct me if you 'zink I am wrong," He spoke, dragging another puff of carcinogens. "But I remember telling you to kill every living being in this place."

"You're absolutely right, sir." Tommy answered. "You did."

"Then we've got a little additional work to do." We stated coldly, pulling a pistol out of his pocket aiming up front.

Now Stan was officially scared. He didn't know how exactly the black, solid object called a gun did, but he was sure that it was capable of doing bad things, such as killing people. His dad went absolutely nuts that one day a few years ago when Stan played with a similar thing he found at one of the Randall's cabinets. That was the first and the last day that his dad ever beat him. His dad said Stan could have ended up killing himself. From that day on, he never thought of touching any gun.

He stepped further backwards. He belatedly realized that the cigarette-smoking man may not be on his side after all. In fact, he seemed to be the far end of the definition of a 'friend.'

The gun held in the man's hand made a clicking noise. Was he going to kill him? Stan was frozen in a standing position, not knowing what to do.

_Bang_

Stan flinched at the deafening sound that the gun made, instinctively covering his face with his arms. Strangely, though, he didn't feel any pain. At all. Isn't a gun supposed to inflict pain, though?

Then he heard a loud thud from behind. Looking back, he found the guy called Tommy was now lying on the floor in an awkward position, blood trickling out of a hole that was apparently made by a bullet. It was a terrifying sight to behold. He had never seen a dead guy before. Scratch that. He had seen dead people before, but all of them were lying in coffins dressed in nice, clean clothes. He clearly remembered the face of his grandpa lying in the coffin before he was lowered into the ground to be covered in dirt afterwards. Despite the lack of any sign of life, his grandpa's face looked so peaceful with his eyes gently closed and his hands crossed on his chest. But this was different. The startled expression that formed on the face of Tommy was telling him that he felt immense pain right before his death.

"I 'ate dealing with idiots." The cigarette-smoking man stated without even looking at the guy he just shot. The deep throat didn't realize what was going on before the gun now pointed at him.

"P, please, don't kill me," he kneeled down and pleaded for his life. "please, show mercy, my dear lord!"

"Let me ask you a question," the cigarette-smoking man didn't lower his gun. "iz' the boy dead or alive."

"You, you mean this boy?" he stared at Stan, quivering. "O, of course, he's alive, sir."

"Then does he qualify as a living being." The man holding the gun inquired further.

"Y, yes, sir. He does qualify." The deep throat didn't know what this was going, but faithfully answered the question to the best of his ability.

"Then, you knew he qualified as a living being in 'zis place. But you didn't kill him and let him run towards me." He spoke as the cancer stick in his mouth got shorter and shorter as time went by. "You know one thing I hate more 'zan idiots. People like you who don't do as commanded."

"Oh, no, no please," the deep throat finally registered what the cigarette-smoking man had in his mind. "please, I can expla…"

_Bang_

His sentence was cut short as the loud gunfire echoed through the large hallway. He dropped forward from his kneeling position, bullet in his head.

Stan couldn't help but to yelp at yet another terrifying sight. Unfortunately, that attracted the smoking man's attention. He spat out the now fully-expended cigarette and stepped on it to extinguish the remaining fire. He reached for his pocket with the free hand to fetch another cancer stick and brought it to his mouth. A blonde man who had been standing behind him then approached him and lighted the cigarette up for him. Having replenished the source of his addiction, the cigarette-smoking man now pointed the gun towards the little boy.

"Now, Stanley," the cigarette-smoking man inquired in his cold, indifferent voice, cocking the pistol once again.

"…Do you fear death."

**XxXxX**

**A/N: Thank you for reading this far. I'm a slow, incompetent writer, so I can't make any promise as to when the next chapter will be uploaded. I hope you enjoyed it, and please don't hesitate to tell me how you think.**

**Best,**

**-Jack Colquitt.**


	3. Au Revoir, Stanley!

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.**

**T/W: Character death. Possibly chauvinistic remarks—please bear in mind that it's 1924.**

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 2: Au Revoir, Stanley!**

_Do you fear death_.

The cigarette-smoking man's question echoed inside Stan's head. Of course he feared death-it was part of the human instinct. Although death was a concept that he didn't fully grasp yet, he knew it was the worst thing that could happen to a person. And given the present circumstances—bunch of people in black suit around him and one of them pointing a gun at him—one could easily deduct that death was one likely consequence that he faced.

The boy, however, did not answer his question right away. Amid the sheer pressure that could easily overwhelm an able-bodied man, he suddenly remembered something that his father, Randall Marsh, had always told him.

_Be brave, Stan_. That was what his father told him almost on a daily basis. _Especially in the face of a great peril, do not give in. Do not give them what they want. Even if that means losing your life. Death is just one of many things a man has to face. Gut is what makes a man, a true man. A true man doesn't fear anything._

A sudden wave of courage swept the inside of the boy as he thought about what his dad told him. "No, I'm not afraid." Stan stated firmly to the man in front of him. "My dad told me a true man doesn't fear anything. Especially guys like you."

The whole place went completely silent for a second. What Stan didn't see coming, however, was the sudden eruption of loud laughter from all the standing men in the place, minus himself. Even the emotionless cigarette-smoking man joined other people, muttering 'Did you 'ear 'zat' to the blonde man who was standing right behind him. Stan had nothing to do except to stand still, feeling dumbfounded. Was it what he said that hat made them all laugh? If so, what was so funny about it?

The sheer laugher lasted a good ten seconds before it began to die down. For a reason that Stan did not understand, the cigarette-smoking man mysteriously lowered his gun and walked towards the boy, still not erasing the smile from his face.

"Boy, I love your answer. Sorry 'zat I didn't recognize a fine, brave, true gentleman 'ere" Some of the men giggled again. The smoking man continued. "Seeing that you're a good boy and all, there is somezing 'zat I want to show you." Then he shot a quick look at the blonde who had lighted his cigarette up minutes before. "Gregory, take all the boys out. I'll join you later."

"But, Christophe," the man named Gregory seemed to be the only one who addressed the cigarette-smoking man by his first name. "The whole building is going to collapse soon. There's little time left."

Stan couldn't help but notice that Gregory had a different accent from the cigarette-smoking man. He was already familiar with the heavy French accent that the smoking man spoke with, because his dad taught him a little French and told him to stay away from anyone who spoke the language. The Blonde man called Gregory, however, spoke British English. One of Randall's servants, Pip, was a British and had the exact same accent.

Then he saw the lingering smile on the face of the cigarette-smoking man go away. He slowly turned his head to shoot a death glare at the guy called Gregory. "Do not make me repeat myself."

Gregory went stiff as he felt the chill of death from the glare that he was receiving. "S, sorry." He then hurriedly walked towards the entrance, beckoning others to follow him. "Alright, boys, we're moving out. Move your arses!" He looked at the cigarette-smoking man one last time before he closed the front door. "We'll be waiting in the front yard."

The smoking man just nodded without looking back, and the door was closed shut with a clicking noise. After all the other guys exited the building like an ebbing tide, Stan and the cigarette-smoking man were the only ones occupying the great hall of the building. Stan noticed that the previous smile on the man's face had returned. Speculating cautiously that the man was in the right mood, the boy decided to press for a question that he had been wanting to ask.

"Who are you?" Stan asked nervously.

The cigarette-smoking man scoffed. "My, my. Excuse my rudeness." He exhaled the odd-smelling smoke from his lung as he continued. "Christophe DeLorn is my name. But everybody calls me 'ze Mole."

Stan remained silent. _The Mole_…he contemplated, _what an odd name_.

"Come 'ere, boy. You don't want to miss z'is." The Mole then headed towards the direction where the kitchen was located. Stan saw no other option than to oblige.

He pulled to a stop in front of the door leading to the kitchen and looked at the boy. "I 'ope you enjoy it." With that, he pushed the doors wide open.

When the door opened, Stan had to pinch his nose in order to prevent the odor from harassing his olfactory senses: the thick smell of human blood. As he entered the room, however, he discovered that the odor was hardly a thing that mattered at all. The place was nothing short of a bloodbath. The entire place was littered by dozens of dead human bodies, blood oozing out of them making ponds here and there.

"'Zey made 'ze final stand 'ere." The cigarette-smoking man commented, seemingly not irritated at the scene at all. "But to be honest, it was more of a massacre than a battle." Then he patted on Stan's shoulder. "'ave a look around. I prepared a prize for you somewhere in the kitchen."

This kind of scenery would normally make Stan cry and run away calling for his mom. He, however, knew that he had no one beside him to depend on right now. Swallowing back the urge to cry out and run away, he slowly looked around the place to find the 'prize' that the man mentioned he had hidden in the place.

His gaze first stopped at the corner of the room right beside the dish cabinet. Lying beside it with her back to the wall was a possibly overweight woman with red, curly, and voluminous hair. Tear welled up in the boy's eyes as he identified the body as belonging to the head maiden of this premise: Sheila Broflovski. She had always been kind to Stan, almost too kind sometimes. Her husband Gerald had been killed when he was caught in the middle of a crossfire between the Marshes and the DeLorns several years ago. Having learned about this, Randall offered her a job at his premise and paid her handsomely in an attempt to compensate for her loss. Sheila greatly appreciated the favor and pledged her everlasting service to the Marshes.

Sheila and Gerald had two sons: one named Kyle who was of the exact same age as Stan, and the other named Ike who was born when Kyle was three. Ike, however, died of pneumonia before he could reach his first birthday. The loss of her second child and the following death of her spouse drove Sheila somewhat schizophrenic. She became overly protective of her only remaining son and barred him from ever exiting the house in order to protect him from the dangers of the outside world. On every Tuesday, however, Kyle tagged along with his mom to learn about various things that he would grow up to do—she wanted Kyle to work in the Marshes' house in the future as she was doing. The Marshes were powerful enough to protect her child, according to what she professed every day.

As Randall didn't allow his only son to go to school where he would be targeted easily by other Mafias, Kyle was the only friend in his age that Stan ever got to know in his life so far. The story was not so different for Kyle, who had to remain home every day and night all by himself except for Tuesdays. As a result, the two loners grew to enjoy each other's company quite much, filling in the blank of human interactions with their friendship. Although Sheila usually had Kyle do some chores in the house, he would sneak out when his mother was not looking and would hang out with Stan, playing hide and seek in the garden, pushing each other on the swings, and just running along around the building for no obvious reason. Day after day, they witnessed their friendship evolve into best friendship, and then again into what they called 'super best friendship.' Naturally, Tuesday became their favorite day of the week. Now that Sheila was dead, however, Stan didn't know what would become of his super best friend. He placed his hand on his chest and clutched the necklace he was wearing through the fabric of the shirt. It was Kyle who had given it to him six days ago, over a certain promise that they made.

But his hand soon fell as his gaze moved away from the painful sight of Sheila's demise. There was no time to be mourning about the loss of one particular life for too long. If he did, he would be stuck in the kitchen for the next ten days weeping. He started to sob as he recognized several other people that he grew up to be intimate with. Lying across the table was Rebecca who used to read him bedtime stories whenever he had difficulty falling asleep. She was Stan's favorite of all maidens in the house, and he always liked to call her Red.

Then he noticed Jimmy. He was a World War veteran who lost his legs in a battle and acquired a post-traumatic disorder that made him stammer. Hired by Randall as an engineer and repairman, there was nothing he couldn't fix with his tools. He had a great sense of humor and was a welcome guest in every special occasion such as weddings and birthdays.

Yet another body belonged to Henrietta, who always held grudges against her own life, among numerous others. Her cold mannerism sometimes scared Stan, but he had to give her credit for making the world's best oatmeal. But as it seemed, he would never be able to taste it again.

His train of thought, however, grinded to an abrupt halt as his gaze stopped at a certain sight that he never knew he was going to see in his lifetime. At the other corner of the room beside one of the windows was a man lying dead, his hand still not letting go of the gun he held until his death.

Randall Marsh, the godfather of the Marshes who has been commanding the entire Bronx for years, was there. The color of his hair was charcoal black, identical to that of his son Stan. He wore the not-so-neatly groomed moustache that tickled Stan's face whenever he gave him a kiss. His open, unblinking eyes stared at the ceiling with an expression that Stan could not understand.

"Daddy!" without a second of hesitation, Stan bolted towards the dead, limp body that had been his father for the last eight years. The Mole man followed him slowly.

"Daddy! Daddy! Wake Up!" Stan wailed as he shook the cold body of Randall Marsh as hard as he could. He remembered the times when his dad feigned death when they played 'cowboy gunfight' with imaginary guns they supposedly held in their hands in the old, western style: back to back, ten steps forward, and pull the gun at the count of five. And then bang! Stan always emerged as the winner, and his dad would clutch at his chest with pained expression on his face, dropping on the ground covered by grass with an exaggerated gesture. Another unchanging feature of this game was that he always came back to life to play another round, or to head back inside the house when Sharon or Sheila called out for the two males saying the dinner was ready. Stan hoped that his dad was feigning death this time as he always did. He hoped that his dad was pulling a prank and he was going to surprise him any minute shouting '_BOO!'_ right to his face.

That, however, did not happen. No matter how hard he called out the name of his father, no matter how hard he shook his body, no matter how hard he prayed for God to bring him back to life, nothing happened. Stan hugged the body of his dad as hard as he could. He was so different from what he remembered him to be. He felt too cold to the skin of the boy. He did not hug him back. He did not say anything to acknowledge his son's presence. He was so… _dead_.

Stan felt the sudden feeling of his inside churning. This was too much for an eight-year-old boy to handle, especially for Stan Marsh who was born with a particularly weak stomach. Letting go of the body, he stepped backward and crawled on all fours. Then, he threw up everything that he held inside him. He didn't stop crying even when he was emptying the contents of his little stomach. The boy's face was now all covered in tears flowing down from his eyes, mucous from his nostrils, and vomit from his mouth.

"Do you like your prize." The cigarette-smoking man had been watching the whole feat, his facial expression still not changing from the usual look.

"Who…" Stan wiped his face with his sleeve as he slowly recovered and looked up at the Mole. "Who did this to my dad?" To his mind, there was no one who would do such a terrible thing to his dad. He was the most brave, most kind, and most loving person that he'd ever known. He didn't know the reason why anyone would want to hurt his dad like this.

"Oh, do you want to know." By that time, only the filter remained from the cigarette that he was smoking. He tossed it away as he walked towards the boy, slowly kneeling in front of him. "Do you really want me to tell you who did 'zis."

Stan was scared a little as the distance between him and the Mole was suddenly reduced to mere inches. Without saying anything, he silently nodded. He did want to know. He wanted to find out whoever did this to give them the same fate as his father's. He had never felt the anger and sorrow of this scale before. He was still too young to fully understand the true meaning of the word vengeance, but this was the exact thing that he was yearning for.

"Alright" Then the French man pulled himself closer to the boy to the extent Stan thought he was going to kiss him. The boy could feel the scent of French Vanilla coffee that the man presumably had for his breakfast. Instead of kissing him, however, he stared directly at the boy's eyes and stated in his cold, firm voice.

"_I_ killed him." he continued as the boy's eyes went wide. "I killed Randall Marsh. I killed everyone. I killed your father, your mother, and your sister. I killed everyone in 'zis house." The wide grin returned to his face as he said this. "Oh, by 'ze way, you should have been here when I killed your mother. Or maybe you might have heard her screaming like a bitch."

"_ARGH!"_

Stan felt the immeasurable anger building up inside him and plunged his clenched fist forward. It was him. It was him all along. It was him that brought misery and destruction to his happy life. Now he had to pay for what he did to his family. He already had punched that Tommy guy earlier that day, and he was confident that he could fight the Mole in front of him like he fought Tommy.

His fist, however, was stopped in the middle of the air by the French man's hand. "Oh-oh." He wagged the index finger of his other, free hand in disapproval. "'zat is a very naughty boy."

Then the Mole stood up and kicked the boy in front of him hard, sending the fragile body of Stan flying across the room. Stan landed on the floor with a loud thud, wincing and yelping at the immense pain inflicted on him. He was sure that some of his ribs were cracked. The Mole stomped his way to the injured boy and stepped on his chest to prevent him from standing up.

"Let me go!" Stan yelled at the Mole while wriggling helplessly to escape from under his foot, but in vain.

"Go ahead. Call for help. Pray for God to help you out." He shouted almost maniacally. "Where iz' God when you need him the most. Where iz' your beautiful, merciful faggot, now."

Stan's brain, however, could not form an answer to that question. The Mole was stepping on the exact spot where his ribs were cracked and he thought they were going to break apart if the Mole continued applying pressure on his chest. He never felt so much physical pain in his life. It was becoming more and more difficult to even breathe. Stan groaned in pain.

The Mole either did not notice what Stan was going through or did not care enough to relieve him of the pain he was giving him. "People say I'm a freak. A bastard. But you know who the real freak is. God. He's the biggest bastard that the world has ever witnessed. He wouldn't even blink even if I killed you in this right moment, in this right place. What kind of just, loving deity lets a hardened criminal like me kill a little, innocent boy. He doesn't even bother to send you a rescue." Then the Mole finally lifted his foot from Stan's chest.

Stan lay panting as the Mole continued his heated insult against God. In fact, he didn't hear anything he said with sincerity. In front of him was the man who killed his dad, his mom, his sister, and virtually everyone that he grew up to know. Stan was waiting for the Mole to let his guard off so that he could try throwing another blow at him.

Thinking he caught a perfect opportunity, Stan jumped forward and tried to mount his fist at the Mole's stomach. It, however, was too easily blocked by the man who was almost twice as tall and three times as heavy compared to him. Without retaliating like before, however, the Mole pulled the boy's hand he was grabbing to his left chest, where his heart was located underneath.

"You must hate me. You must despise who I am and what I did. You must 'zink I'm a 'artless bastard. But I'm not." He pulled the boy's hand further to his chest so that Stan could feel his heart beating. "Can you feel it?" The Mole asked. "Can you feel my 'art?"

Stan did feel the man's heart beating. It rather came as a surprise, as he did not expect such a cold-blooded killer to have a heart as he and other normal people did. He, however, refused to answer the man's question. He didn't want to communicate or interact with him in any way. Instead, Stan glared at the Mole while breathing heavily.

"I'll take that as a yes." Letting go of Stan's hand, the Mole reached for the inner pocket of his suit, pulling something out. It was a long, lean dagger covered in a leather scabbard. He pulled the handle of the dagger to reveal the silver, shiny blade of the weapon. At the center of the blade was a certain inscription written in French.

_Viva la Résistance_

"Splendid, isn't it." He said while examining the knife closely, rotating it in various degrees. "It's origin dates back to the Révolution in 1789, which means this is more than one hundred years old."

Stan winced as the Mole suddenly cut one of his fingers with the blade, making blood ooze out of the fresh scar. "But still sharp. It hardly rusted." Then the Mole licked the blood on his finger.

_This man is insane_, Stan thought, _he is completely out of his mind_. He tried hard to guess at the meaning of his gesture. Was he going to kill him? Probably not. If he wished so, he would have easily disposed of him in the hallway. Even if he was intending to kill him, however, Stan could not think of running away, let alone fighting back. The amount of pain that he felt in his chest increased tenfold from minutes before, and he was not sure if he could even walk in this state. Even if he tried, the Mole would have little difficulty in catching up with him and piercing that long, scary dagger through his heart.

"What are you going to do to me?" Shuddering at the thought of his impending death, Stan managed to speak out those words.

The Mole moved his gaze from examining the dagger he held to staring at the boy, and answered him nonchalantly. "I'm offering you a chance. A second chance, perhaps." Then he spun the dagger so that the handle of it was on Stan's side. "Take it."

To Stan, it was getting more and more difficult to understand what was inside the French man's mind. Agitated by Stan's lack of reaction, the Mole insisted for a second time. "Take it."

Then the boy took the knife that the older man offered him. Stan was so confused that the idea of using the dagger right away to stab the one who killed his family did not occur to him. Instead, he stared at the Mole with a questioning look on his face.

"Go ahead. Live on. Experience firsthand the misery of life like I did. You're now all alone in this world. And when you grow up to be a man," The Mole returned the boy's gaze. "come for my 'art with that knife of yours. When that day comes, and if you deserve it, I shall give it to you." He didn't blink a single time as he said this. "But you'll 'ave to take it from me. I like my 'art."

Then, he once again grabbed Stan's free hand and guided it to where his heart lied underneath. Stan could feel the man's heart beating, but at a much faster pace than it had been moments ago.

"From now on, my 'art is yours, Stan Marsh. The question is," He grinned. "will you ever be able to claim it."

Still, Stan did not fully grasp the true intention of the Mole. One thing was clear, though: the man expected him to live. The man _wanted_ him to live. The man wanted him to live so that he can claim the man's heart. If that was the case, Stan did not see any reason to decline his offer.

"I'll do it." The boy stated firmly. "I promise I'll do it."

"Good." The smile on the Mole's face grew wider. "I shall be keeping it until the day comes."

As soon as he finished that line, however, the entire building made a cracking noise. The fire must have gotten to the main pillars that had been supporting the ceiling. The whole place could come down any minute.

"Time to part ways, Stan Marsh." The Mole waved the boy off, standing up to get himself out of the place as well. "Get out of here. And don't forget the knife."

"But my dad!" Stan didn't want to leave the body of his dad in that state. And his mom. And his sister. In fact, he didn't want to leave anyone behind in a collapsing building.

The Mole sighed. "A boy iz' a boy…" Then he pulled out the pistol that he had stored at the side of his belt. "You 'ave five seconds before I change my mind."

Stan tried to protest. "But what about my dad!"

"Five." The Mole started counting.

"You can't just leave him alone!" The boy implored.

"Four." But obviously it failed to move the older man's mind.

Stan then realized that there was no point in trying to argue with the man. He quickly grabbed the dagger lying on the floor and looked around to see if there was any exit.

"Three." The Mole aimed the gun at the boy.

Stan then spotted the rear door of the kitchen that led directly to the backside of the building. Without wasting another precious second, he started running towards the door.

"Two." The gun made a clicking noise.

Stan reached the door and tried to open it. To his sheer dismay, however, the door was locked. He tried to force open it, but the task was simply too much for an eight-year-old boy.

"One." The mole closed his left eye, using the other eye to finalize his aiming process.

"Wait!" Stan turned around to explain the situation. "The door's locked! I can't…"

_Bang_.

Like earlier, Stan reacted to the sound of gunfire by flinching and instinctively covering his face. This time too, however, he didn't feel any pain of any bullet penetrating his system. Slowly opening his eyes, he noticed smoke exiting the barrel of the pistol held by the Mole. When a sudden squeaking noise came from behind, the boy turned around to see what just happened.

…the door was open. The doorknob, along with the locking device inside it, was completely blown off. It was an impossible job except for those who possessed remarkable marksmanship. _Wait a minute_, Stan thought, _did the Mole just blow the door open for me_?

The boy turned around once again to face the man holding the gun. "Did you just…"

"I missed." He stated in the usual cold, nonchalant manner. The pistol then made another clicking sound. "But I never miss twice in a row."

The boy noticed the sincerity in his remark and quickly bolted outside the door. It was getting dark. He climbed up the fence as quickly as he could and kept running from the house that he had been living since he was born. Tears welled up in Stan's eyes as he reminisced about all the memories he had before that day.

_Mom, dad, Shelly… they don't belong to this world anymore._

_Kyle… with his mom dead, he doesn't have anything left in his life, just like me._

He clutched at the necklace that he was wearing once more.

_Sorry, Kyle. I don't know if I can keep the promise…_

Back in the building, the Mole emerged from the collapsing building through the rear door of the kitchen. He pulled out the pack of cigarette from his inner pocket, and fetched the last remaining stick in the small paper box to bring it to his mouth. Lighting up the coffin nail, he dragged a puff of the sweet, addicting smoke into his lung and expelled it back into the air. He noticed the figure of Stanley Marsh running away from where he was.

"Au revoir, Stanley!" The Mole shouted at the direction.

When Stan heard the voice of the cigarette-smoking man from behind, however, he didn't look back. He knew that he would not be able to run again if he ever stopped. So he ran. And ran. And ran. He ran until he didn't recognize the scenery that he was passing through. And then he still ran.

The Mole silently watched the boy until he completely disappeared from the sight. He suddenly felt the taste of the cigarette less appetizing then before and tossed the still relatively-new cigarette back into the house through the open door.

"Go on, Stanley. Live on to suffer. When you grow up, grant me a wish that God wasn't nice enough to grant." He mumbled to himself. "And put me out of 'zis misery."

He then walked away from the building to join the other members of his clan who had been waiting for him in the front yard.

"What became of the boy, Christophe?" Gregory asked, opening the door for the black sedan for his old friend.

"He's dead." The Mole stated plainly. "Pity. He reminded me of myself when I was at his age."

Gregory silently nodded and then asked. "And what about this Cartman guy? I don't know if we really should let a rat like him into our ranks."

"A deal iz' a deal, Gregory. He fulfilled his portion of the bargain. Now we fulfill ours." The Mole stared blankly up front as he seated himself. "Give him a post. Perhaps in accounting. He seems to be good at calculations."

"As you wish, my good brother." Gregory smiled and closed the door shut, hurrying himself to take his seat behind the wheel. The Mole's face displayed a sign of uneasiness at the way Gregory called him, but he decided not to pursue the matter and said nothing.

One by one, the vehicles belonging to the DeLornes left the place. Soon after, the once great, white building at 609 Elm Street crushed down with a loud noise, splashing dust all over the block.

And Sharon was right: it made the first headline the next day.

**XxXxX**

**A/N: **

**Thank you for reading thus far. This largely concludes the introduction part of the story, which describes the origin of the whole incident. The subsequent chapters will fast-forward to 1934, ten years after this event took place. You will begin to see some familiar faces popping up, and the story will become more and more romance-heavy as it progresses. I expect 12-15 chapters in total, but no guarantees.**

**The tip of my hat to xIcedRainbowsx, (Anonymous), Skaminski, and kenny and kyle who left their wonderful reviews! There's nothing that a writer appreciates more than the fact his—notice the pronoun—work is appreciated. A dude writing a slash fic…I'll be damned. I hope this doesn't scare off anybody. I don't bite. Usually.**

**Please let me know how you think about this chapter, and don't hesitate to tell me if you have anything you'd like to ask.**

**I might have to put this story on a brief hiatus to deal with some crazy stuffs happening in my winter session. FYI, I major in Procrastination. I must say I'm pretty good at it.**

**Happy 2012!**

**-Jack Colquitt.**


	4. A Storm is Coming

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.**

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 3: A Storm is Coming**

"You sure you're fine if I just dropped you off here?" A man, possibly in his fifties or sixties, inquired with a concerned voice while sitting behind the wheel. He was driving a 1933 model of GM Buick and was wearing a glimmering silk suit and a black top hat, showing his rather high socioeconomic status at that time. Sitting next to him in the passenger seat was someone in a brown suit riddled with stains of unknown origins and torn marks, which indicated that the wearer did not bother to change or wash his clothes a lot in the past.

"Yes, sir. I'll be fine. Like I said, I've been here before." The voice coming out of the figure in the passenger seat did not match his appearance in some way. When prompted, most people would answer that the voice belonged to a boy, most likely in his late teenage. The inside of the Buick was too dark that the passenger's true face was hidden in the shadows. The weather didn't help, either: dark clouds gathered up in the sky, blocking the hot sunray that was typical of any summer day in New York City. People outside scurried along their way, not wanting to be caught in the middle of the tropical rain and waste a perfect set of their clothes.

"I know, kid. But the city is not the same as it had been ten years ago." The old man remarked as his car pulled to a stop at the roadside. "I'm just worried, uh, it might not be the safest place that a boy like you can freely stroll in…all by yourself."

"Sir, I greatly appreciate your concern." The passenger nodded in acknowledgment. "But as I said, I'll be fine. Whatever lies ahead, believe me. I've been through worse." He then pulled the handle at his side of the door to open it. "Thank you, mister. I won't forget your favor."

"Well, don't mention it. I was heading for the same direction, anyway." The old man said, watching the boy exit the vehicle and close the door.

At the roadside located in the middle of Queens stood the boy in the brown suit. His hair was charcoal black, and it was messy as if he hadn't showered in a while. His eyes displayed a slight sense of tiredness from the six-hour travel that he shared with the old man in Buick from Boston all the way up to New York City. However, that could not conceal the sparkling determination that was hidden beneath his ocean-blue irises. He was just three months short of reaching his nineteenth birthday in October, but his face was yet to discard the look of an adolescent boy. Unbeknownst to the people who hurriedly passed by him were numerous scars that his body wore underneath the fabric of his old, ragged suit, a silent testament to the fact that the boy had had more than his fair share of violence despite his young age.

His name was Stanley Randall Marsh, the boy who lost everything in his life ten years ago in the same city.

Looking around the street, he let the memories of the past run amok in his mind: how perfect the world seemed when he was young, how the fateful day a decade ago changed all of that, and how much pain, suffering, and agony he had to endure living on the streets of Boston.

He had learned firsthand how harsh the world could be for a person who didn't have anything to protect him from the hardship of life: no home, no family, no friend, and no money. At first, he would live alongside the beggars on the streets, living on a few coins that several sympathetic people dropped in his tin can. When his daily income was not enough to afford a loaf of bread and a pack of milk—which accounted for at least half the time—, however, he had to resort to a much less honorable profession: shoplifting, a more "hands-on" approach to feed his growling stomach. If he was lucky enough, he could escape the hands of the angry shop owners following him and spitting curses about how much the bread held on the boy's arms were worth. On some unlucky days, he would try to shove as much bread as he could down his throat before they pinched him down and beat him half to death. In some occasions when the retaliation for shoplifting was particularly heavy, he was sure that he'd never see the rising sun of the next day. For better or worse, none of the bakery owners managed to kill the little _les miserable_. The boy had some of his bones cracked and broken for sure, but he soon found that the human body possessed an incredible capacity for repairing itself as long as his heart continued to beat.

Stan, of course, was not the only one who had to live his life on a day-to-day basis on the streets. Soon, he joined the gang consisting of other unfortunate boys and teenagers who managed the shoplifting business more… organized. However, that didn't make Stan's life any easier. The group of juvenile delinquents was a prime example where the primary thesis in the theory of evolution not only made sense, but made the _only_ sense: the survival of the fittest. The kids on the top of the power ladder commanded the entire group and claimed the right to have the best of things that their 'business' produced. The weaklings, on the other hand, would have the fruits of their labor stolen by other members and do all the chores that no one else was willing to do.

For the first few years after joining the club, Stan belonged to the latter group. He was one of the pawns on the chess board which built the first line of both offense and defense against the foes but were easily discarded without a second thought when the situation merited it. After stealing a bag full of groceries or fighting turf wars with another street gangs, all that was given to Stan Marsh was a tiny little bit of cookie and a can of water that barely kept him from starving to death. Searching for additional sources of food in the trash cans on the street sometimes backfired, and he would suffer from food poisoning followed by diarrhea and ensuing dehydration that was the leading cause of death among the members of the street gangs. Again, for better or worse, he was spared from the grip of death that visited numerous others around him.

As years went by, Stan found himself advancing towards the higher point of the power ladder slowly but steadily. There was only one way a person could do that: fight the ones above your rank and win. Although one cannot say that Stan possessed a heavy physical build—in fact, he was on the opposite side of the spectrum, given the malnutrition he suffered—his incredible persistence in battle was most of the time more than enough to exhaust the enemies and make them give up. As he defeated the gang leaders in the upper level of the food chain one by one, more and more people began to wonder what gave the little, fragile boy such a remarkable ability to endure the punches and kicks mounted on him and still stand up to face the opponents who grew apprehensive as the fiercest of their attacks turned out to be futile in curbing the boy's will to challenge them.

Because Stan never told anybody about his personal history, no one but himself knew what really fed his wills to live on. His wills to fight on. His wills to win on. If he fell today, he would never be able to claim what rightfully belonged to him: the heart of the Mole. Whenever he felt he was no longer able to put up with the reality for one more second, he would silently gaze at the knife that his archenemy gave him and renew his commitment to hold true to the promise that he made over that shiny, metal object.

It took six years for the boy to ascend to the very pinnacle of the street gang and assume the role of the leader of the group. As another three years went by, Stan Marsh became the name that each and every teenaged gang on the streets of Boston admired and feared at the same time. When there was no one left in the capital of the State of Massachusetts who would dare cross his way, Stan sensed that it was the right time he returned to where his soul belonged. He could have lived a fairly successful life as the head of the street gangs if he decided so, but he was fully aware that such was not the life he truly wanted to live. When he announced his "retirement" and bid farewell to the faces that he grew to be intimate with, they gave him their one last present: the nicest suit that they could find worn by one of them. Swallowing back tears, Stan left behind everything but a handful of cash, his new brown suit, the knife, and the necklace that he never failed to carry with him wherever he went. Thanks to the goodwill of an old, rich man who was heading towards New York City, he could hitch a ride with him as the vehicle carried him to the place where he would meet his final destiny.

"I hope you've been keeping my property well, Christophe." Stan mumbled to himself, grabbing at the handle of the dagger that was hidden inside a scabbard attached to the side of his belt.

"Be careful, kid!" Stan's train of thought was suddenly interfered when the old man in his Buick lowered the window and shouted at him. "A Storm's coming. You might want to find a place to stay first!"

"Thank you, mister. I will." The boy looked back and voiced his gratitude as he watched the window roll back up. The vehicle started to move away from him, finally to disappear from his sight. The old man was right: judging from the clouds and the wind picking up speed, it was going to rain any minute now. And it was going to be one of those rains that pour buckets after buckets of water and end up blowing away several poorly-maintained houses before it finally stops. He needed a place that would shelter him from the harsh weather, and of course, where he could silently think about how to accomplish his plan to reclaim his property. As much as he wanted to plant the knife straight on the chest of the Mole any moment now, he knew that he would need more than his gut to bring down such a powerful man from his throne. Honestly, he didn't give a whole lot of consideration as to what he would do after he arrived at the city.

_I have a whole lot of plan to make._ He thought as he let out a deep sigh. He then glanced around the avenue to see if there was any motel he could stay for the day. The six-hour drive left him wanting for some much-needed sleep.

It was then that he found a small sign carved out of a wooden panel that read "INN" hanging outside a small three-story building across the street. It didn't even have a name on it, and judging from the size of the building, it would hardly be the nicest place that he could find around the block. For a person like Stan who had slept on the hard pavement of the streets for the last decade, however, a bed made of haystack would be tantamount to the palace of Versailles.

_Perfect_, he thought. _The exact place that I was looking for_.

His expectation turned out to be true as he entered the old, wooden building. With some added exaggeration, the place was nothing short of a barn. It was one of these places where the dining hall was located on the first floor and dozens of tiny rooms where one can barely lay his body occupied the second and third floors. The floor made creaking sound whenever he stepped on it.

As soon as he reached the hall, he realized that there were not many customers despite the weather turning ugly out there. He could see only five people, himself included, in the dimly-lit dining area. At the far end corner of the room were two people in suits and fedoras. Since the table they were occupying did not have any food on it, they were not here to be dined. Another man who was donned in a similar manner with the other two was sitting on the long bar table with his back turned on Stan's side. Across the table was a man wearing a bow tie and a black vest over a white dress shirt. From the looks of it, he was the one in charge of this place. As Stan approached the manager, he deliberately made his footsteps loud enough to make his presence known to others.

…but it did not take long enough for him to realize that his attempt to direct the manager's attention to himself had apparently failed. He was now standing directly in front of the man over the counter, but the manager did nothing but to stare down at his own feet.

"Um, excuse me," Stan waved his hands. "I need a room for one, please?"

The manager then finally looked up at him. He seemed to be in his late thirties or early forties, but his haircut made him look much older: his grayish-brown hair were more or less neatly combed to each side of his head, revealing his rather wide forehead to make him look like a balding man. Judging from his clenched hands slightly trembling and his pupils constantly changing the object they were looking at informed Stan that the man was being apprehensive over something. Or someone.

"Um, look, if you're concerned about my looks, I do have money." Stan pulled out his old wallet and waved it in front of the manager. "And in an unlikely scenario where you don't have any vacancy, I can just sleep on the floor. Just give me a discount in that case. The weather's gonna turn ugly out there and I really could use a room to keep me from getting all wet, you see."

Instead of answering, however, the manager slowly looked at the other man who was sitting a few feet next to Stan as if he were awaiting his permission to speak. The man slowly nodded back. Taking it as a cue to go ahead, the manager finally opened his mouth.

"_Two-oh-seven_." He grabbed a key from underneath the counter and handed it over to Stan. "How long will your stay be?"

"Uh, just tonight for the time being." He placed the key securely in his pocket.

"Is there anything else you need?" the manager inquired.

"Uh, not right now. I could use a meal after I get some sleep, but I guess I could handle that later. Thank you." With that, Stan turned around to climb the stairs leading to his designated room.

"We'd rather you paid in advance."

A sudden voice, however, made him stop. Turning back, Stan found that the voice did not belong to the manager that he just talked to. Instead, it apparently came from the figure sitting in front of the counter who was now staring at him.

"Uh, ye, yeah. Could you pay in advance?" The manager reluctantly concurred.

Blinking, Stan made his way back to the counter. He didn't have anything against paying in advance, but it was the context that the request had been made that bothered him beyond belief.

"O…kay," Stan did not hold himself back from forming a questioning look on his face. "And how much would that be?"

"Um, three fifty. Including the standard meal plan." The manager stated nervously.

Humming _um-hmm_, Stan counted three dollars and fifty cents inside his wallet and pulled them up front, presenting them to the manager in front of him.

Before the manager could reach for the money, however, the figure right beside Stan stood up and grabbed the papers. "Thank you for your payment." Then he pulled the money to his side.

Or he tried, because Stan did not let go of his money. "Um, I hate to break this to you, bro." He said while making his forehead wrinkled. "The money is for the manager, not for you."

"I hate to break this to you, _bro_," the man replicated Stan's remark in a rather joking manner while giving a strong emphasis on that last word. "His money is _our_ money."

Stan then heard the noise of a chair scratching against the wooden floor behind him. When he looked at the direction where the sound came from, he could see that one of the men who were sitting quietly in their table emerged from his seat and was making his way to his side.

_Three of a kind_. Stan thought. The nature of the visit paid by those three men in black suits now became clear. They were mobs who came here to collect dues, protection fees, or whatever they called it. He must have bashed in while they were having a little "discussion" about their own payment plans. Although Stan was fairly confident about his skills, he didn't know whether he could fight off three Mafia members at the same time. The solution was clear, then: he had to fight them one by one, not allowing the three men to gang up on him. It was one of the strategies that he had learned while growing up on the streets of Boston.

Determined to execute his plan right away, he snatched the money he was holding from the grasp of the other man beside him. "Sorry, I worked my ass off to make that money, and I only give it to those who deserve it." He made sure his remark sounded like a mockery. "You, sir, are not one of them."

"You son of a…"

Stan saw a fist flying to his face immediately.

_Predictable_. He thought. _Not a well-trained move. This might be a lot easier than I thought_.

Stan easily dodged the punch that was heading towards him and grabbed the other man's arm stretching forward from the side. Then, he mounted a kick to the man's elbow from beneath. He then heard the loud crackling noise as the man's elbow was completely dislocated, making him groan in agony. Using his other free hand, Stan punched the man's stomach as hard as he could. This knocked the man over from his chair, and he fell to the ground with a loud noise. Stan was sure that he would not be able to get up for at least another minute.

"You little bastard…!"

Looking back, Stan noticed that the other man who was approaching him from his table was reaching his hand for the gun held to the side of his belt. Not wasting another second, Stan flung forward and crashed to the man with full force. This knocked both of them down, and the revolver on the man's hand was sent flying to the other side of the dining room. Stan utilized the momentum of the impact and rolled over to the side where the pistol landed. Grabbing it, he immediately stood up and aimed the revolver to the forehead of the man who was now squirming to get up from the lying position.

"I wouldn't make the slightest move if I were you." Stan threatened as he cocked the hammer of the revolver to make the cylinder rotate.

"Enough." A sudden voice echoed in the dining room, directing the attention of all people present to the one man who was sitting on his table silently throughout this whole incident. Stan, too, glared at the man while still aiming the gun to the man beneath him.

The sitting man slowly reached for his fedora and put it off his head, revealing his messy blonde hair. After placing the hat gently on the table, he used the same had to beckon Stan to his side. "Come, kid. I want to have a little talk with you."

_Hmm, a middle boss_. Stan easily identified the relative rank of the blonde man from the way he talked and behaved. He debated for a second about whether to comply with his unexpected request but then decided that the man did not intend harm. If he did, he would have joined the other two men when Stan was beating the shit out of them all in a matter of seconds. He tapped the side of the revolver to make the cylinder come out and leaned the gun backwards to remove the bullets, which made sharp noises as they dropped to the floor. Slowly, Stan approached the table where the blonde man was sitting and pulled a chair to seat on.

"I believe this belongs to you." Stan placed the now-empty revolver on the table and slid it to the other side.

"Thank you." The man acknowledged him. "Well, about the feat you've shown me back there,"

"It was in self-defense." Stan cut him off. "You can't deny it if you saw it."

"Well of course it was." The blonde man did not seem agitated by the possibly humiliating defeat of his underlings. "What I was going to say is that I'm pretty impressed. For the lack of a better word, that is. The thing you pulled off was nothing short of being incredible."

"That is flattering." Stan answered insincerely, not moved by the man's compliment by a bit.

"Where were you trained at? The military? The gangs?" The man inquired.

Stan, however, opted not to answer that particular question. Revealing his past among the juvenile gangs of Boston was the last thing that he intended to proudly brag about.

"Well, if you don't want to talk about it, it's fine with me." The man got the cue and quickly changed the subject. "Okay, where do I begin…" He drummed his fingers on the surface of the table. "First, I'm sure you're wondering about who I am."

The boy scoffed. "In fact, I'm not."

The blonde man was apparently taken off-guard by the blunt remark. "Pardon?"

"What I'm saying is that I think I already have a pretty good idea as to who you and these guys are." Stan pointed to the other two men who were still recovering from the damage inflicted on them.

"Please," The blonde man displayed a sense of curiosity. "Enlighten me."

"When I first entered this place, I noticed that none of you three people had ordered any food, which means that the purpose of your visit must be something else than being dined." Stan stated matter-of-factly. "The manager was being overly apprehensive, and I figured that something was definitely bothering his mind. When one of your guys acted as if he was giving orders to him, the answer became perfectly clear. You, sir, are members of the Mafia who came here to collect money from the poor guy, and the timing of my arrival couldn't be more interrupting."

"So far, so good." The blonde man seemed amused, developing a wide grin on his face. "Continue on."

"And I couldn't help but notice this." He pointed to the upper-left pocket of the suit that the blonde man was wearing. "Mafias utilize several different signs to indicate their respective factions. The color of your handkerchief placed nicely over your pocket, blue in this case, tells me that your allegiance is to the Tuckers, the Mafia lord of Queens. My regards to Mr. Craig Tucker."

Stan could see the man's white teeth as his grin became wider. "Go on, Sherlock."

"Finally," the boy continued with his observation. "I mean no offence, but the fighting skills of your men there were subpar at best. Actually, I've seen better fighters living on the street of Boston. My best guess is that they are those who lost their jobs during the Depression and only recently joined you in a prospect of living a better life. You, by the way, should be the middle boss who recruited them, just as you are trying to recruit me right now."

The blonde man burst into an all-out laughter. Stan silently watched the man as the laughter turned into a giggle and was finally put to a stop.

"Well, seeing that you figured it all out, there is no point in dragging this conversation any longer than necessary." He remarked while smiling. "Let me cut to the very point. Join my crew. I could really use a hand of a fine man unlike those two useless imbeciles."

Stan already knew what the man was going to ask since he sat on the table. His answer, however, was already set.

"No, thanks." Stan answered bluntly.

The smile on the face of the blonde man was going away. "Why not?"

"Because I have a better dream than to become one of you guys who constantly harass people to rip their money for your own benefit." He did not hold back from making harsh remarks. "I happen to be a person who believes in justice. In a way, you can safely say that justice is the only thing I m seeking in my life. I have personal history."

After listening to Stan's remark, the blonde man let out a loud sigh. "Well, that's a shame." The man leaned backward, showing an apparent sign of disappointment on his face. "But if that is what you believe, I have absolutely no intention of forcing you to do anything against your will. You know, I'm not as bad as you might think." He became silent for a few seconds before he spoke again while scratching the back of his head. "I'm curious, though. If a man with your skills, guts, and intelligence was roaming freely around my area, there is no way that I could have never heard of you."

"In fact, I just arrived at the city." Stan provided the answer to the query.

"That's what I thought." The blonde man leaned forward to Stan's side of the table again. "that being said, would you mind if I asked your name?"

Stan hesitated, thinking about the appropriateness of revealing his name to a mob. He could turn out be an enemy, after all.

The man noticed the boy's hesitation. "Oh, come on, I'm not going to tell anybody." He insisted. "I'm just curious, that's all."

Sighing, Stan finally gave in to the demand. "Stan Marsh."

He didn't expect the reaction of the figure in front of him, however. Immediately after hearing his name, the man's face became paler than that of a sheet of paper. The only time that Stan had seen a paler face was when he glimpsed at the face of his grandpa in his coffin while he was being lowered into the ground.

"Uh," the man stayed that way for a good ten seconds with his mouth agape. He seemed to be struggling to produce a word in his mouth, though unsuccessfully. The only word he could voice after the long moment of silence was: "Sorry?"

Stan felt uneasiness at the way the man reacted to the revelation, but began to repeat his name. "Stan Mar…"

"Wait, wait, wait." The blonde man suddenly crossed him. "Let me." His serious look made Stan go silent. "Am I addressing a Stanley Randall Marsh, son of Randall and Sharon?"

"And you call _me_ Sherlock." Now it was Stan's turn to be impressed. "How did you know?"

Instead of answering the question, however, the blonde man abruptly flung forward and cupped his hands on each side of the boy's face. Though surprised by the man's action, Stan did not stop him as the man pulled his face closer to his and started examining.

"Your eyes…" the man stared at Stan's blue eyes as if he were hypnotized by them. "I'll be dammed. You really _are_ Stan Marsh." After finally letting go of the boy's face, he still refused to break the gaze. "But swear to God, I thought you were dead!"

"Uh, excuse me, but," It was right then that Stan realized that the man's face looked strangely familiar. "Do I know you?"

"You're kidding? You seriously don't remember me?" The man remarked incredulously. He leaned forward to close the gap between them to mere inches. Stan could see tears welling up in the eyes of the man.

"Stan, it's your uncle Kenny. Kenneth McCormick."

**XxXxX**

**A/N: Thank you for reading so far! This was one of these boring chapters where nothing of critical importance happened, but it was an essential part for story development. Believe it or not, I'm going as fast as I can with the plot while trying not to lose too much detail in the process. I once thought about inserting the detailed story of Stan's past ten years as separate chapters but figured that would be off-topic and would make the story unmanageably long.**

**And finally a familiar face who is still alive! Kenny is one of the characters who will receive extensive development as the story goes along. Well, that is true for all main characters, though.**

**FYI, the main plot of this story will begin at the end of the next chapter. Stan's first encounter with Kyle is scheduled to take place shortly as well. I hope this will help keep you interested in the story.**

**And a million thanks to my wonderful reviewers, xIcedRainbowsx, Skaminski, A. T. Vio, Kenny and kyle, and lily's mom09! It makes me happy to know that there are people who enjoy my work despite its abysmal quality. I love you all—in a Platonic way—!**

**Regards,**

**-Jack Colquitt.**


	5. Welcome to New York City

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.  
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**XxXxX  
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**Chapter 4: Welcome to New York City  
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"…Kenny?" Stan stared into the tearful eyes of the blonde man that glimmered in deep azure. He couldn't find the appropriate word to describe what he felt. He had thought from time to time that there might be someone he knew who stayed in the city after the incident ten years ago, but he was not holding his breath for the chance: a lot of things can change during ten years in a City of New York. He searched for an appropriate verbal response for the unexpected advent of an old acquaintance, only to find that he couldn't go further than: "I…I…"

"Wait, wait, wait," Thankfully, Kenny saved him from the burden. "This conversation will be better done in a more private setting." Then he waved at the manager who had been standing still watching the whole ordeal and shouted: "Jason, we need to use one of your rooms upstairs."

"Y, yes, sir." He stammered. "But how about…"

"For God's sake, forget about the money. I gotta address a much more important matter now." The blonde man stated. "Get me a glass of whiskey, instead." Then he glanced at Stan once again. "You fancy a drink?"

"Um, no, thanks. I don't drink." Stan debated about adding "usually" at the end of the sentence but soon decided against it.

"Oh, come on, it's on me." Kenny insisted. "It's like, a family reunion in a decade. Join the celebration."

"Well, I'm not trying to be one of these obnoxious smartasses, but there are two visible holes in your logic here." Stan said matter-of-factly. "First, you're not really paying for that drink. You're getting it for free from the manager. Second, we don't really belong to a same family anymore. You work with the Tuckers now."

Instead of responding to the boy's remark, Kenny stared at him with an incredulous look. Although he didn't speak anything in response, the expression on his face was asking him '_Really? Is that the best thing you can say after ten years_?'

Stan sighed, feeling defeated. He saw no point in declining the man's offer anymore. He would end up making Kenny mad at him if he continued on. "Sorry. I'd love some whiskey, too."

"That's more like it." The hurt expression on the face of Kenny was now replaced by a rather cheerful look. "Jason, make that two." Kenny notified the manager and beckoned Stan to follow him as he stood up to head upstairs. While on his way, he noticed that his two underlings were now back on their feet, not daring to meet his gaze. Getting knocked out in a two-to-one with a teenager in five seconds was not usually the news that a boss would take so favorably. Instead of scolding, however, Kenny glanced at the guy who was holding his dislocated arm by the other one with a pained expression. "Is your arm okay, Bridon?" He inquired.

"He'll be okay, sir." Instead of the guy called Bridon, the other guy who was standing right next to him answered. "I looked at the injury, but nothing seems broken. The pain's gonna go away naturally over the course of a few days, and a few weeks would be enough for it to heal."

"Good." Kenny nodded. "Gary, do whatever is necessary to fix him up and wait for me in the car outside."

Leaving the two guys downstairs, Kenny and Stan climbed the stairs and entered 207, the room assigned to Stan. He tried to come up with a topic that would break the ice while following the blonde man's lead, but his normally functional brain got all haze as if intoxicated. Yes, that man was Kenny alright, but a more important question was whether he was _the_ Kenny that he remembered from the past. People tend to change over time, and ten years were sometimes more than necessary to turn a close friend to a bitter foe. He still needed to see if the man could be trusted.

"Close the door." Kenny told the boy as he entered the place. Stan complied with his order, pushing the door close until he heard the gentle clicking from it. As he turned around from the door, he found himself confronting Kenny face-to-face.

Stan attempted to start a conversation with one of these '_uh…'s_ that seemed to last forever in awkward situations, but it was cut short as Kenny suddenly closed the gap between them and gave him a tight embrace. Stan normally would have yelped but he managed to hold it back.

"I'm so glad you're alive." Came a trembling voice from the taller man who rested his head upon the boy's shoulder. "You can't even begin to imagine how guilty I felt when I found out you'd been raided. I made a pledge to your father that I'd protect you from harm with my life. I cursed myself every day and night for failing that one simple task. I wished every day and night that it was me who died that day, instead of you."

Stan listened silently as Kenny gave his little address. The man's words sounded sincere. One of the knacks he developed from his experience on the streets of Boston—aside from fighting skills and survival instincts—was the ability to call one's bluffing. Distinguishing the honest people from those who lied through their teeth was an essential factor that ensured his survival. As he stood there hearing what Kenny said, he could feel that his remarks conveyed the truth.

_Alright_. Stan Thought. _He can be trusted_.

Finally letting his guard down, Stan returned the embrace by wrapping his own arms around Kenny's chest. They stayed like that for about half a minute before Kenny pulled away.

"And you son of a bitch," A smile appeared on Kenny's face. "You were alive and kicking asses for those ten years, and didn't even try to give your uncle a single call?"

"Sorry. Life's been crazy for me." Stan made an apologetic smile.

The two parted away as a knocking sounded at the door. As Stan proceeded to open it, it revealed the manager holding two glasses of whiskey on a tray.

"Thank you." The teenager expressed his gratitude and took the glasses, watching the manager close the door politely. He followed Kenny to the round table located at one corner of the room. Both of them said nothing for a while, sipping the brownish liquid as if it was the only thing that kept them alive amid the sheer awkwardness that surrounded them. Stan was sure that Kenny was still his friend but was at a loss of what to ask of him. Each and every question that popped up in his mind seemed more or less inappropriate. After a long, quiet contemplation, Stan finally decided to ask him about what became of the other people that they knew.

"So…Kenny." Stan cleared his throat. "I'm glad that I got to meet you today. This was surely not expected."

"That makes two of us." Kenny took another sip at the drink.

"That being said, I'm becoming curious about other people. You know, those who worked with my dad. You still keeping in contact with any of them?"

"Yeah…about that…" he didn't seem too happy about the question. "Well, not really. We've been all split after what happened ten years ago."

"Split?"

"Um, do you remember Pip?"

"Yeah, Uncle Pip." The image of a nice, polite, and always well-behaved British man came to his mind's vision. "The one from England."

"Right. He wrapped it all up here and went back to where he came from. Last time I heard, he was working at a small forge or something."

"Oh." Well, that scratched him squarely out of the picture.

"Well, at least he doesn't have to put up with this shit here anymore." Kenny said cynically. "Maybe I can join him someday. Life in this city hasn't been easy since the Depression."

"Yeah…" In fact, Stan had been feeling the full impact of the stock market meltdown for himself. After what they called the Black Tuesday, he saw the number of people forced out to the streets double, triple, and then quadruple. Although no one in his group of teenaged gangs had anything invested in Wall Street, the rising level of competition for increasingly scarce resources made the daily life much more difficult. But then again, it was a peril shared by everyone in the country, and perhaps around the world.

"At least we're alive. In a time like this, that's a thing we've got to be thankful for." Stan remarked which earned him a small 'yeah' from the man sitting across the table. "That aside, what happened to Uncle Butters? Is he still alive?"

Stan saw the face of Kenny stiffen as soon as he asked that particular question.

"You mean Stotch." There was a conspicuous sense of disapproval in the way Kenny voiced the man's last name. "Unfortunately, yes. If it was up to me, I'd personally see to it that coward takes his last breath in my hand."

"Why?" Stan cocked his brows. "I thought you two have been very best friends. What happened?"

"He defected. The day after the incident." The man answered coldly. "That little pussy is licking the French ass now."

"…I see." The teenager's gaze fell to the ground as he thought about the friend who now turned into a foe. "I don't blame him. Maybe it was the most logical choice he had."

"Logical, but cowardly." Kenny snorted. "In fact, it isn't his defection that angers me to no end. A lot of people turned to the DeLorns after we fell. You know why he deserves the biggest pussy of all time award?"

"No. Why?"

"He was in charge of protecting Mr. Marsh that day. You know, we don't leave our godfather completely defenseless in this city. We took turns in that duty, and it was his turn of guarding the premise." Then he let out a noticeable sigh before he continued. "Guess what he did after he saw a hoard of DeLorn assailants surrounding the building."

"…" Stan then realized what Kenny was trying to say. "…He ran away. Didn't he?"

"Of course he did!" Kenny slammed on the table with his both hands as he spoke the last line. "He ran away like a rat chased by a cat. The next day, he knelt before the Mole and pleaded for his and his family's life. I don't know why that cigarette-smoking bastard would accommodate him to his family, but that's what he did. He became this little errand boy running around to keep his new master pleased." He spoke incessantly as he always did when agitated. "I'm pretty sure he's sucking cocks now. That little cock sucker."

Stan leaned backward and stared at the ceiling. He somehow knew that Uncle Butters was not known for his dauntlessness, and what Kenny described more or less matched his expectations. He ran away. He was supposed to protect the family, and he just ran away to save himself. If he had chosen the other option and stood against the attackers, could he have prevented the downfall of Stan's family that day? Maybe, maybe not. It would have been impossible for Butters and his underlings to repel all of the DeLorns all by themselves for sure, but they may have bought enough time to allow Stan and his family to escape and get help from other members. That alone could have changed history.

This chain of thought made the teenager feel uneasy. He grabbed his glass and gulped down the rest of its liquid content.

"I sometimes wonder who I should hate more." Kenny broke the brief silence. "Stotch or Cartman."

"Cartman? You mean Uncle Eric?" Stan thought about the fat, disgruntled figure from his childhood memories. For some reason, almost everyone in the family seemed to dislike him.

"Yeah. Cartman." He looked away, frowning. "He works for the DeLorns, too. He actually got to a relatively high post. Heard he's in charge of finance and accounting." He scoffed. "But I kinda knew that he wasn't the most loyal type. He's born that way, and I never once trusted him. It didn't surprise me when I heard that he went to the Mole's side."

"…"

Stan didn't say anything for a while. If his memory was serving him right, that's all of the middle bosses that took his father's command. Two of them turned their backs on their original family and joined the enemy as soon as his parents met untimely demise, one fled to Queens to work with the Tuckers, and the last one went to England, never to return. A lot of things changed since his departure, and these four were no exception. This directed Stan's mind to a certain person that he hoped did not change. Problem was: he didn't even know if he was even alive.

"Um, Kenny," Stan decided to give it a try. "Do you happen to have any knowledge on what happened to Kyle?"

"Kyle?" Wrinkles formed between the eyes of the blonde man. "What Kyle?"

"You know, the son of Sheila, who used to be the head maiden?" Stan thought about what the best way to remind Kenny would be. "He was of the same age with me. We hung out together every Tuesday."

"Oh…yeah, yeah, that Jewish kid." Kenny rubbed his temple, leaning his head to one side. "Named, uh, Broski or something."

"Broflovski." Stan corrected him.

"Yeah, that was it." He slapped on the table at the enlightenment but asked Stan again, confused. "And, what about that kid?"

"I mean, do you know if he's still alive or where he lives?" The boy elaborated his question for the man.

"Um, well…" Kenny scratched the back of his head, blinking several times. From the looks of it, he was no better informed about Kyle's fate than Stan was. "Sorry, I didn't really pay attention to the kid after the incident. Some crazy shit happened and I had to deal with them."

Stan's gaze once again fell to the floor. "Don't worry. I understand." Despite what he said, he couldn't stop himself from feeling uncomfortable. One reason why he decided to come back to this city, besides the obvious intention to carry out his revenge, was to locate the one who had been his only friend in his whole life. He slowly reached for his pocket and gripped the object inside: a necklace that he always kept with him.

"Do you have any reason to find him out?" Kenny inquired, concerned about the change of the boy's mood. "If you do, I can start looking for him starting tomorrow."

"No, that wouldn't be necessary. Thank you." Stan declined his offer.

"As you wish." Kenny tapped on the table with his fingers. "You can always look it up in the police record, but," He hesitated for a while. "I don't mean any offense, but, I don't really think you can find him if you tried. If I'm remembering correctly, Sheila was the only remaining family that he had at the moment, right? If that's the case, he would have been either forced to the streets or picked up by some agencies. Either way, there is little chance that he still lives within the city limit. Even if he did, you should be super lucky to actually find him among the population."

"Agreed." Stan knew that the man was saying the truth. Maybe he was following a false hope. He let go of the necklace in his pocket and pulled his hand out. "There are many more things that I should be doing than trying to find an old childhood friend."

"You're a smart kid, Stan. Good to have you back." Kenny smiled. "I'm aching to know how you could have lived on for those ten years and, especially, what compelled to bring you back here in this rotten city. But I guess you can tell me your story along the way." He then emptied his glass of whiskey and stood up from the table. "Come on, I'm taking you to my place." Then he grabbed the fedora he'd been keeping in his jacket and walked towards the door. When he opened it and looked behind, however, he found that the person who was supposed to be following him was yet to emerge from his seat.

"…Stan?" he urged the teenager. "We can continue what we were doing at my place. I left my boys waiting in my car for too long."

"Sorry, Kenny." Stan stared at the man directly. "I'm not going with you."

"You gotta be kidding me." Kenny looked at him incredulously, stepping towards him. "Care to explain?"

"Because I've got things to do." Stan stated without changing his expression. "And I have no intention of involving other people into my personal matter."

"And would you care to elaborate on what that personal matter is?" Kenny approached him further, clearly agitated. "Now don't tell me you plan to bring down the Mole to avenge your parents. Stan, you're smarter than that."

"I just have a debt to collect from the man himself." The teenager didn't back down. "It's nothing more than a good business."

"God, Stan." Kenny slapped on his own forehead in distress. "Don't. Don't do this to me."

"What am I doing to you? I said it was my personal matter. Didn't I?" Stan stood up from table, with his fists clenched. "I'm not going to drag you into any scheme. What I'm doing is the exact opposite. I'm just gonna leave you alone, and I'm asking you to do the same."

"What you say you're going to do is impossible." Kenny wasn't going to give in to the boy either. "The Mole and the entire DeLorns are off-limits. They grew ten times in power since you last saw them. Even the police cannot dare touch them, for God's sake!"

"And how does that involve you?" Stan gritted his teeth. "You thought I was dead anyway, so if I get killed when trying to get to the Mole, what difference does it make to you?"

"Stan, I already lost you ten years ago." Kenny glared at the boy. "I'm never going to let it happen again."

"Sorry, I already promised the man himself that I'll get him. There is no going back." Stan turned himself around so that Kenny couldn't see his face. He faced the only window of the room which was now being hit by multiple raindrops. As he heard no remark from Kenny, he assumed that he had won the debate.

What Kenny said next, however, was enough to intrigue him.

"If that's the case, I can help you."

Doubting his own ears, Stan turned around once again to face the man. He wasn't the angry, aggravated Kenny that he was a few seconds ago. Instead, his face wore a rather sad face.

"Pardon?"

"You can never bring him down alone." Kenny stared at him. "In fact, no one can bring him down, no matter how many men you manage to gather."

"Then why help me?" Stan inquired.

"Because I promised your father." He stated in a matter-of-factly. "The pledge to save you from harm still stands. Since you're entering an apparent suicide mission, the best I can hope to do is to die trying to fulfill that oath."

Stan briefly contemplated on the option that the man offered. Of course, Kenny would prove to be a valuable ally if he accepted. Stan wasn't unaware of the simple fact that he could not defeat the Mole all by himself. Kenny was the exact kind of person that he needed in order to achieve what he desired.

But the idea of letting him into his plan was bothering him. With his family massacred and his colleagues left behind in Boston, Kenny represented one of the very few people that he still could call his friends. If his scheme to get the Mole fails, then Stan and all of those who helped him would surely die at the hands of the cigarette addict. Even if it miraculously succeeds, the rest of the DeLorns would not tolerate the existence of the men responsible for their late godfather's death. Kenny was right. This was a suicide mission, no matter how it turns out. If that was the case, Stan didn't intend to drag other souls into unnecessary demise. That was one main reason why he wanted to keep this revenge a strictly personal matter. Too many people died already. There was no need to make other suffer the same fate.

"I appreciate your offer, but the answer is still no, Kenny." Stan stated, looking away to avoid his gaze. "I can't make you risk your own life. Nobody has to do that for me."

Finally, he heard Kenny taking a deep breath and exhaling it. He must have given up. He could hear the reluctant footsteps made by the man that was moving away from his direction.

_All is good_, Stan thought, _Nobody suffers for me_.

However, the sound of the footsteps stopped when it reached the doorsteps.

"1827 Hancock Street." Came Kenny's voice. "We close at midnight today, but don't make me wait until then."

Stan sighed, still refusing to look at Kenny's direction. "Kenny, if you need to be reminded, I already made up my mind."

"…Funny." He heard Kenny scoff. "Because I made up my mind, too."

"What the…" When Stan turned his gaze to the doorstep to inquire about what he meant, the door was closed shut and the figure was already gone. Stan stood there with his mind puzzled. Through the window, he saw the black sedan picking up the person he had been talking to and driving off to disappear into the rains and beyond his sight.

_Fucking Great_. _I now have another set of problems to solve_.

While he was in the middle of cursing himself, there was a knock at the door.

"Who's there?" Stan shouted without actually looking at it.

"It's the manager, sir."

"…Come in. It's open." he then took a few steps towards the door as he watched the manager coming in, holding a tray that had a bowl of steaming soup, a loaf of bread, and neatly folded three dollars on it.

"What are all these?" Stan inquired.

"I prepared something you can eat, sir." The manager answered cheerfully. "You don't drink whisky with an empty stomach. It can do nasty things to your inside."

"Yeah, um, thanks." The teenager blinked. "But what about the money?" those were the same bills that he had paid—or at least tried to pay—as a fee for staying in the place. They must have dropped to the floor in the middle of the fist fight he had with the two underlings of Kenny.

"It's all on the house." He put the tray on the table. "It's a token of my gratitude."

"Gratitude? What for?" Stan blinked. He didn't remember doing any favor to him that would possibly earn a complimentary meal.

"For helping me out against the guys down there, perhaps?" He arranged the dishes and utensils on the table for him and beckoned. "Would you mind if I took a seat here?"

"No, not at all." The manager nodded in acknowledgment as the teenager approached the table to have himself seated across the table. He took a spoonful of the soup to his mouth, savoring the taste of corn.

"This is good," Stan remarked, earning a 'thank you' from the man. "I think I once heard Kenny call you Jason, is that right?"

"Right, sir." The manager smiled. "Forgive my rudeness, but are you really who they say you are? Mr. Stanley Marsh, the son of late Randall?"

_So much in a name_, Stan thought, _I feel like I'm a celebrity now_.

"…Just Stan." He answered unexcitedly. "And I would prefer that we don't talk about the past."

"Of course, of course. As you wish." Jason said defensively. "I don't intend to bother you by throwing hundreds of questions. I just wanted to dispel any possible…" He dragged on a little. "misunderstandings."

"Misunderstandings?" Stan raised his brows. "What kind?"

"The ones concerning Mr. McCormick." Jason said. "Um, he is not as bad as you might think him to be."

Stan coughed. "Uh, that's the last thing that I expected from someone who was nearly robbed by the guy just now."

"I know it sounds strange, but it is true, nevertheless." He played with his finger nervously. "Yes, he did try to collect his fees from me today, but I have to assure you that he normally wouldn't do that. He leaves people to decide when and how much they are going to pay. Much like your father did in the past. What he did today means that he's in a desperate need of cash."

"You mean he doesn't usually force payments?" Stan rubbed his forehead. "But he's a mob. That's the way they make all the money they need. How is he going to afford his business if he keeps on doing that?"

"Exactly." Jason pointed his finger at him. "In fact, Mr. McCormick is one of these few bosses who are struggling to make ends meet. He's definitely not in the high end of the wealth structure in this city. If anyone asked, I'd place him at the exact opposite."

"You mean he's poor?" Stan leaned forward, listening intently to what Jason had to say about Kenny. "A mob? In this city?"

"Yeah. I would say." The manager answered. "You see, he's different from all the other mobs currently ruling this city. If there's only one person who can help you bring justice to the man you seek, that would be him."

"You were eavesdropping." Stan narrowed his eyes. "The whole time."

"Sorry, I couldn't help it." Jason shrugged. "But I just wanted to tell you this. Mr. McCormick is a good man. If you're serious about what you plan to do, I strongly suggest you take his hand."

"And what's in your interest to persuade me to do so?" The boy asked in a suspicious voice.

"Trust me, Mr. Marsh. You are not the only one who wants the Mole down. If you ever succeed with your plan, and I pray to God it does, you'll be doing the whole city a huge favor."

"…"

Stan didn't say anything for a while. Now the manager wanted him to join forces with Kenny. What he considered a strictly personal matter wasn't exactly personal to begin with. Jason said that the whole city wanted the French mob lord dead on the ground.

"I…" The boy hesitated. "I don't even know if I ever can do that. The reason why I don't want other people involved is because I know I won't be able to get what I want. I don't want to see other people invest in me and then fail."

"If you'd please, Mr. Marsh." The manager suddenly reached forward and placed his hands on those of Stan's on the table. "If you're half the man your father was, I have absolutely no doubt that you can achieve whatever you aspire. Your family's reputation precedes you. Believe me, a lot of people will stand behind your cause once they find out who you are."

Stan couldn't help the smile developing on his face. He didn't know if he was indeed worthy of succeeding the name of Marsh from his father. What he just realized, however, was that he may have more allies than he ever aspired to have. It was the first day he arrived at the city, and he already picked up two friends. There was no way of challenge the might of the DeLorns with just two of them, but Stan saw the glimmering hope amid the dark clouds the surrounded the future.

"Thank you, Jason." Stan said. "I think I know what I have to do now."

"Glad I could be your help, sir." Jason replied cheerfully.

"I think I gotta go." Stan stood up from the table and pulled the room key from his pocket, presenting it to the manager. "Thank you for the meal and everything."

But the manager didn't take the key back. "You should keep it for now. You can never be sure about what will happen."

"…Thanks." He put the key back into his pocket. "By the way, do you know where Hancock Street is?"

"1827, right? It's a little too far away to walk." Jason pointed at the window. "And the weather's definitely not too favorable to any pedestrian today. You should probably take a cap." Then he looked up and down at Stan. "Can I suggest something, though?"

"What?" Stan inquired, looking down at himself.

"I can arrange a cab for you. Meanwhile…" Jason cleared his throat. "I think you can use a hot shower first. The bathroom's right over there."

"Oh…" The boy rubbed his temple. "Do I…smell bad?" It's surely been a long time since he had his last shower.

"Hmmm… permission to speak freely, sir?"

Stan flushed in embarrassment. "Sorry. I know. I should take a shower for sure."

**XxXxX  
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After cleaning himself, Stan bid farewell to Jason and loaded himself to a taxicab to head to the address Kenny gave him. It was already nearing sunset by the time the vehicle pulled to a stop in front of an old pub. There were letters scribbled to the wooden plate over the front gate.

_The Immortal_.

He didn't really know why Kenny had to choose that peculiar name for a pub, but he proceeded to enter the place anyway. Peeking inside through the half-open door, he found out that the place was possibly in a worse shape than Jason's nameless inn. The manager was right when he described Kenny as being poor: it seemed possible that he actually could be more bankrupt than those he collected money from. As he continued observing the inside, Stan discovered one of the men that Stan encountered today sitting at the long bar. It was the brunette guy whose arm was dislocated in the little fight they had. He had his injured arm bandaged to a wooden panel to keep it in a right position. After stepping inside the place, Stan made a couple of fake coughs to make his presence known.

The brunette looked back and acknowledged the teenager. "Hey."

"Hey." Stan forced a smile, hoping that guy didn't hold a serious grudge against what he did to his arm earlier that day. "Um, can I talk to Kenny?"

"Sure." The brunette said casually. Fortunately, he didn't seem to mind his presence at all. "Bebe, tell Kenny that the boy is here."

"Sure, sweetie." Came a female voice from the room across the place.

Stan decided to ask the guy about his injury while waiting for Kenny to appear. He slowly made his way next to him. "Um, is your arm okay?"

"Sure, don't worry about it." Quite unexpectedly, the man greeted him cheerfully. "I got all kinds of injuries while I was practicing dance for musicals. I've been through worse."

"You do musicals?" that caught Stan's attention.

"Well, used to." He made a bitter smile. "The crew got bankrupt and now I work here for Kenny- oops," he placed his index finger on his lower lip. "I gotta address him as Mr. McCormick when the people from outside are around but I guess you're one of us now, ain't you?"

"I guess so." Stan shrugged.

The guy extended his uninjured left hand to the boy's side. "Bridon. Nice to have you here."

Stan returned the gesture and shook hands with him. "Stan. Nice to meet you, too."

"Look who's here!" Their mutual greeting was interrupted by the advent of the owner of the place. Accompanying him were three other people, two male and the other female. One of the man was the other one that he already met earlier that day.

"It's nice to meet you again, uh," Stan then had an internal debate about how to call that man. Now that he entered his team, he was his boss. "Mr. McCormick."

"Fuck, Stan. Don't call me that shit." Kenny frowned. "Do it only when we're out pulling some stunts. When scaring the people, right? Otherwise, consider me a mere first among equals."

Stan smiled. "I see. Sorry I've been acting like a jerk earlier today."

"Don't mention it. You made it here. That's the only thing that counts." Kenny waved it off. "Well, I understand that there are some pressing matters that need to be discussed, but first, I think a little bit of introduction is in order." He placed his hand on the man standing next to him. "I'm sure you remember Gary. You already met him today."

"Hi." He extended his hand, to which Stan responded by extending his. "Gary Harrison."

"Stan Marsh." Then he remembered the man attending Bridon's injury that day. "Are you a doctor or something?"

"Well, half." Gary answered. "I got kicked out of the medical school in the middle of my degree program."

"Why?" Stan tilted his head.

"He's a Mormon." Kenny answered the question instead. "The dean was a mean, old, devoted evangelical and was being a complete dick about it."

"Oh." Well, that was not a very happy story to hear. "I'm sorry."

"Not at all. I enjoy working here." Gary responded.

"Okay," Kenny then approached the female with curly, blonde hair. "And here's Bebe. She's more fierce than she looks."

"Hey, handsome." She played with her hair with one of her index fingers. "Gary here tells me that you rocked today."

"Uh, thank you…?" That was the most appropriate answer that Stan could come up with.

"I like it when handsome guys go ferocious." She examined Stan up and down. "Especially in bed."

"Uh…" That was absurd. How was he supposed to respond?

"Bebe." Thankfully, Kenny stepped in to save him the burden. "Save it for later."

"Why Kenny, you jealous that he's gonna take your spot?"

Kenny coughed with his face growing red. "Okay, next, here's Bradley." He introduced another blonde guy, but with his hair neatly combed.

"Bradley Biggle." The man suddenly shoved a glass that was holding a yellowish liquid in front of Stan. "Want some Mint-berry punch?"

"Uh, mint what?" The boy narrowed his eyes.

"Mint-berry punch. My personal concoction. I'm sure you'll be satisfied." Bradley almost pressed the glass to Stan's chest. "Come on. Take a sip."

"Um, I already had a glass whiskey today." Stan backed away, feeling a little insecure about the drink. "Sorry, maybe later."

"Oh, alrighty, then." Bradley then drank his 'personally concocted' drink.

"Good choice." Bridon, who was watching the whole introduction from behind, remarked. "It's 70% pure alcohol. Avoid it at all costs."

"Okay, enough with the introductions." Kenny intercepted. "I gotta do some paperwork to make you the official member of our crew. And in the meantime…" Kenny took a breath. "I think you should take a shower of something, Stan. You smell awful."

"What? I already had one in the motel." Stan protested.

"Oh, really? Then maybe we should give you some new clothes, then." He then faced Bebe. "Check the storage room for some spare clothes. I'm sure there are some that are of his size."

Bebe grinned. "I'll look for some extra tight ones."

"Bebe, not now." Kenny said in an exasperated tone.

"I was joking." Bebe then made her way to a room across the place. "I'll call you when they're ready, handsome."

"Uh…o…kay…" She somehow gave Stan some uneasy feelings.

"This is never getting easier." Kenny shook his head in defeat. "Anyways, I'll be in the office filling out some forms. In the meantime, get familiar with everyone. Cheers." Then he disappeared to the room that he originally came from.

"Uh…" Stan now was left with three other people in his crew: Bridon, Gary, and Bradley. "Excuse me, but are there any other people in the crew? I mean, when I think about a group like this, I tend to expect a few more."

"Well I'm afraid that's all." Gary replied. "People are attracted to money, and we're not exactly running the most prosperous business in the town."

"…I see."

"We used to have a lot more, though." Bridon hopped into the conversation. "Six more. All chicks. You know, Kenny is really into big tits and all."

Stan narrowed his eyes. "Big tits?"

"He's crazy about them, man." Bridon said jockingly. "When we were at least financially solvent, he spent the whole day in bed with pairs of boobs. You really should have been there, because he makes it so loud that-"

"I can hear you!"

Kenny's voice sounded behind the wooden wall before Bridon could finish his sentence. Flinching, he straightened himself up and continued in a whispering voice. "Well, that's the past anyway. They all left when the Depression hit and he became poor like shit. Now Bebe's the only girl he's left with. And she's not been easy for him."

"Speaking of Bebe," It was Bradley who joined the conversation. "I think she likes you, Stan. I mean, she seems to be really into you. She never acts like today to any one of us."

"Agreed." Gary concurred. "I mean, she's a fine girl. You can start dating her, if you like."

"Well, that's very flattering." Stan answered insincerely. "But I-"

"Your clothes are ready, sweetie." Bebe's voice sounded from inside the storage room.

"Speak of the devil." Bridon laughed. "Go ahead. Don't let her eat you alive."

Stan shrugged and made his way into the room. It was dark and dusty, and only a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling was illuminating the room. There, Bebe was waiting for him with a full new set of his clothes.

"Thank you." He voiced his gratitude as he took the luggage, to which the girl responded with a grin.

Putting the new clothes down on the nearby table, Stan began to remove his old, ragged clothing. When he was working with the buttons on his shirt, he discovered that Bebe was standing in the doorway as if she was watching an interesting show.

"Um, Bebe? I think I can handle it by myself from now on." Stan stared at the girl, watching her scoff and leaving the room and shutting the door closed.

Finally left alone, Stan quickly discarded the rest of his old clothes to the floor and changed to fresh ones newly given to him. He had worried if Bebe prepared the extra tight clothes as she said she would, but they fit him quite nicely. They kinda smelled of dust, probably because they have been left in the room for a long time, but he figured that they definitely smelled better than the old ones he had been wearing. Finishing up the tie, he stepped outside to be greeted by others.

"Man, you're a completely different person now." Bridon remarked.

"Clothes make the man." that was from Gary.

"No, it's the man that makes the clothes." That was from Bebe, who was forming a very satisfying smile on her face. "The same clothes would look shitty on you guys."

Before Stan could come up with a response, the phone rang.

"I'll take it." It was Kenny, who was still on the other side of the wall. The phone went silent soon as he picked it up.

"So, you're the son of late Randall Marsh." It was Bradley who brought up the topic that Stan couldn't say he favored.

"Yeah." He wished to make the topic as short-lived as possible. "I don't usually like talking about it, though."

"Oh, I'm sorry." He answered. "I just wanted to tell you that many people still remember your father."

"They do?"

"Of course, man." It was Bridon who answered. "Without him, the DeLorns are running the city as they like. The Marshes were the only family that stood up against them."

Stan's gaze fell to the floor. "Well, that's probably the reason why he got killed."

Gary put his hand on his shoulder. "Don't get too cynical, kid. He was an honorable man."

But the conversation was cut short as Kenny stormed in, pushing the door wide open that it made a loud thudding noise when it hit the wall.

"Okay, boys, it seems we've got ourselves a problem." Kenny announced in a serious tone as he approached the rest of the members of his crew.

"What problem?" Stan asked.

Kenny looked around the people and took a heavy breath before he continued on. "The Petuskis have been hit. Their godfather, DogPoo, is dead. We don't have the full details, but we're suspecting the DeLorns. Mr. Tucker called for an emergency meeting of all middle bosses, and we need all hands available to protect him from possible attacks. End of brief."

_Shit_. Although Stan was not familiar how Mafia politics worked, he could see that it was a very serious matter.

"Bradley, Bebe," Kenny pointed at each of them. "You two shut the place down and be on guard. Contact me at the slightest sign of trouble."

"Yes, sir." The two immediately followed his orders and made themselves busy.

"Gary, Stan, you two are following me. And," Kenny looked at Bridon. "I'm leaving the decision up to you. If you need some time off-"

"I still have the other arm, sir." Bridon stood up from his seat.

"Good. You're tagging along, too." Kenny then beckoned the three of them. "Gary, you're driving. Be careful, the storm's being a bitch."

"You can count on me." Gary replied, grabbing car keys from under the bar table.

Stan closely followed Kenny and other members to the black sedan parked along the road, and he suddenly found the situation quite amusing. "Funny."

"What's funny?" Kenny looked behind at him.

"When I first arrived at the city today, I had no idea who I was going to bump into." Stan scoffed. "And look at me. I join your crew, and now I'm sucked into a possible Mafia warfare." He chuckled a little. "It's like, crazy. You'll never know what will happen next."

"Welcome to New York City." Kenny smiled back at him. "By the way, nice clothes."

**XxXxX**

**A/N: Sorry it took forever to update this chapter. I've entered the finals period for my Winter Session, and it kept me very busy. I took two classes, one from 1-4PM and the other from 6:30PM to 8PM, after which I just passed out. College may be the time and place for everything, but only up until you're freshmen. College life gets harder when you have to start worrying about getting your job and paying back student loans. *sigh* The exam ends on Monday, so hopefully I can assume a much faster pace to finish this story before spring—hopefully—.**

**This chapter got very long, and definitely too long for my taste. I once considered breaking this into two different parts, but I didn't want to be seen as dragging on, especially with the beginning part of the story that tends to be very boring. At least I hope it makes up for the long wait. As I promised, something has finally started to happen at the end of the chapter. Brace yourselves to see familiar faces in the next one :D**

**For those who are not familiar with the names appearing in this chapter, they are mostly one-time or minor characters. E.g.**

**Jason: a minor character that sometimes can be seen hanging out with the Craig's Gangs.**

**Bridon: a one-timer from "Elementary School Musical"**

**Gary: a one-timer from "All About Mormons"**

**Bradley: featured as the superhero Mint-berry Crunch in the Coon trilogy. (Not the one from "Cartman Sucks" who goes by the same name Bradley.)**

**And God, I cannot thank you enough for sticking with me and leaving reviews: kenny and kyle, lily's mom09, A. T. Vio, Skaminski, xIcedRainbowsx. I should probably PM each one of you to extend my thanks later when I'm done with the exams.**

**Cheers,**

**-Jack Colquitt.**


	6. Nice and Boring

**Disclaimer: I do not own South Park or any character present in this story. They belong to their rightful owners, and I do not intend to use them for any kind of profit.**

**XxXxX**

**Chapter 5: Nice and Boring—Just the Way I Like It**

The way to the Tucker residence was not an easy road down the hill. Not that Gary was a terrible driver—in fact, he was doing the best he could under the worst weather condition the city had witnessed in years. The world seen through the windshield was of pure white: the rains formed something like a thick fog that limited the sight range to merely a few yards. One could almost feel malice in the way that the wind blew, and the vehicle shook dangerously left and right as it found itself in the middle of the churning turbulence.

"Jesus Christ, if the DeLorns don't kill us, this crazy weather will." Bridon blurted from the backseat, holding tight to the nearest object that he could find: Stan Marsh. Stan briefly pondered about pushing him away but then remembered that it was he who injured his other hand and decided to make up for it by letting him cling for the moment.

"Easy, Bridon. Everything's fine." It was Kenny occupying the passenger seat in a laxed posture. He seemed almost too complacent as if he was not worried a bit about what was going on in the outside. "What's the worst thing that can happen? Die?"

"Ha. Ha. Not funny, boss." Bridon retorted. "Regrettably, we're unlike you. First, we didn't get to sleep with every walking chick in this city. Second, we are not immortals."

The second part briefly caught Stan's attention.

"Wait, what do you mean by that last part?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" Looking ahead, Stan found that Kenny was now sitting backwards on his seat so that he faced him, a smirk developing on his face. "Well, I understand. You've been far away from this city and it's been less than an hour since you joined, so you might have missed who I really am."

Stan made his brows knit. "An immortal?"

"Precisely." Kenny's grin grew wider. "You noticed the name of our little tavern? Where do you think it came from?"

"And you're telling me to actually believe it?" Stan looked at his boss accusingly.

"Well, at least that's what they call me." Kenny shrugged. "You wanna hear some of my credentials?"

"Please. I'm all ears." Stan laced his fingers behind his head, leaning backwards to the seat. "I've got nothing else to do while the car's rolling, anyway."

"Kids… they never believe anything these days." Kenny shook his head in mock disapproval. "Okay, first off, you know I fought in the war in Europe, don't you?"

"You did? I knew old Jimmy had lost his leg back there but didn't know you were there, too."

"Not everyone who fought there lost his leg, Stan. In fact, I've been through worse. Guess how many times I got shot in the Somme."

"Uh…the Somme?"

"Forget about that name. The correct answer is six times, boy. Three in the chest, two in the left thigh, and one in the neck."

"You got shot at your neck?" Stan asked incredulously. "And you're here in this car with me alive?"

"What did I say?" Kenny grinned and shrugged. "And you shouldn't be surprised yet, because here is the real shit. I have been officially dead for three minutes."

"…No way."

"Yes way! Ask Gary here. He was the one who pronounced me dead." Kenny tapped on the driver's shoulder. "Tell him, Gary."

"It's true." He confirmed without breaking his gaze to the front. "A massive trauma made his heart stop for more than two minutes. I still can't explain what got it beating again aside from pure luck."

"You hear that?" Kenny stated triumphantly. "Learn to believe what your boss says." As he saw the confused look on the teenager's face, he felt his victory assured and turned around to face the front again, until he heard what Stan said next:

"A zombie…" Stan mumbled to himself, which was clearly audible to all others in the vehicle.

Kenny once again turned his gaze backwards to where he was sitting. "Pardon?"

"If you died and then got resurrected somehow," Stan tilted his head in contemplation. "That doesn't make you an immortal. It makes you a zombie. Immortals cannot die in the first place."

The smile on the face of Kenny began to disappear. "I'd really prefer the other terminology."

"It makes sense, boss." Bridon chuckled as he hopped into the conversation. "Raised from the dead. That fits the definition of a zombie."

"Bridon, shut up if you want to keep your other arm." Kenny briefly glared at him and then turned his gaze to Stan. "Okay, let's ask for an expert's advice and settle it. Gary?"

"Um, boss, I'm driving. Count me out."

"All you have to say is that I'm an immortal, and absolutely not a filthy zombie." Kenny formed an overly wide smile that revealed his gum line.

"Don't give in to outside pressure, Gary." Stan was now enjoying this game a little and joined in the effort to woo the half-doctor to his side. "Remember what the medical school taught you."

"Uh…" The Mormon was visibly embarrassed by the situation where he was sucked right into a pointless argument while having to drive all the way through the terrible storm. "I think a more appropriate designation would be…"

The attention of all other people in the vehicle was now pointed towards the driver's mouth. Was Kenny an immortal, or a zombie?

"An undead."

Kenny reclined back to his seat. with his mouth slightly agape as though he refused to believe what the driver just said. "Really?"

"Fair enough." Stan took the doctor's diagnosis rather contentedly. "Zombies, Undeads. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to."

"Jesus Christ," Defeated, Kenny repeatedly banged the back of his head on the seat. "I give you guys food, shelter, clothing, and job, and look at what you do to your boss. Call him a zombie. Fantastic. Damn you. Damn you all."

"No need to be pouting, my good boss." Stan giggled. "Zombie or not, I think it's pretty cool to not to be able to die, or at least stay dead."

"_I think it's pretty cool to return from the dead. Duh._" Kenny mimicked his works mockingly. "You have absolutely no idea. You really don't."

"Boss?" It was Gary who called him before Stan could conjure up a response.

"What." Kenny turned his head to his side, but not trying to conceal his lack of enthusiasm. "Wanna change your vote? Still wouldn't change that you hurt me. Hard."

"Uh, not exactly." He pointed the outside with his chin. "We're here. The Tucker residence."

**XxXxX**

Stan must say he'd expected more when he first heard of the Tucker residence. He himself was born and raised for the first eight years in his life in what can't be called other than a palace: with flamboyant decorations and dozens of people manning the place. Compared to his old residence in his childhood memory, the place where the leader of the Tucker family allegedly lived seemed like a humble cottage. Sure, it was bigger than most houses in the surrounding area—it was three story high—, but that was it. The paint on the wall had lost its hue after constant exposure to the sunbeam and was slightly peeling off. There was nothing that could be called a garden, except for a few—and almost dying—bushes alongside the fence. No one would have suspected that anyone with such influence as Craig Tucker resided in such a modest place. The only thing that indicated that something was going on was the presence of heavily armed guards looking around suspiciously as more and more men arrived to answer their godfather's call.

"Greetings, Mr. McCormick. Glad you could make it on such a short notice." A person who seemed to be in charge of security greeted the self-professed immortal as they made their way to the main entrance. He had to raise his voice so that it can be heard in the middle of the storm.

"Yeah, whatever. These are my boys," Kenny seemed yet to break from his begrudged state. "Unfortunately, that is."

"Um…" The security head cocked his head slightly, not knowing exactly what was going on. Soon enough, however, he recovered his normal state. "Would you consider contributing some of your men for reinforcing the security? As you know, we believe the DeLorns are clearly planning something."

"Fair enough. Where do you need our support?"

"In the rear entrance."

"You guys heard him." Kenny then nudged Gary in his side. "You take Bridon and man the rear side."

"Seriously, boss? In this weather? I'm injured!" Bridon complained openly.

"So much for calling your boss a zombie, huh?" An evil grin replaced the discontent look on the blonde man's face. "Next time, think before you speak. Now hurry along."

Gary and Bridon couldn't make it more obvious that they didn't want to be left in the outside under the torrential rain but had no other choice but to abide by the command. When Stan made gestures to follow the two, however, he was pulled back by Kenny who voiced: "Nuh-uh. You stay."

"Well, I was the one who came up with the new terminology first." Stan felt sorry for the other two members of the crew who were now being held responsible for what he said. "If they have to stay outside, I have to be with them. If you need someone to rash out on, that'd be me, not them."

"Nice try to cover your friends, but that's an order." His boss demanded. "I need to introduce you to some other people inside. Now tag along."

As he made his way towards the front door, Stan made an apologetic smile at the two others who were now destined to get wet before following his lead. They answered with a bitter smile and then disappeared to the other side of the building.

Stepping inside the building behind Kenny revealed a hallway lit by a couple of lamps standing at each side of the wall. If someone asked, Stan would say it was no different from any other ordinary household.

"I must say," Stan decided to press with his growing curiosity. "Your godfather seems to be a very humble man."

"_Our_ godfather, Stan. Keep in mind that you're one of us now." Kenny corrected, earning a '_sorry'_ from the teenager. "It's his style. He just doesn't enjoy any form of grandiosity. He wants to keep everything as plain and simple as possible. I sometimes like it, sometimes don't."

They soon reached the end of the hallway and were now in front of the door. "Stay behind me—" Kenny instructed him and pushed it open.

As they passed the doorway, they entered a large reception area where other people in the family were gathering as well. In the middle of the room was this long, wooden table with a dozen chairs situated around it. As the number of chairs fell significantly short of the number of people present, Stan guessed that they were meant for only the important figures, maybe at the director level like his boss. At the far end of the table was an empty chair that was of a different size and color. That had to be the one where the godfather would be seated.

No one seemed to notice their entrance to the area, as pretty much everybody else in the room was engaged in a conversation with others, not paying enough attention to who arrived. Kenny seemed to be looking for someone as he glanced around the place.

"A-ha! There you are." Having found the person he was looking for, he beckoned Stan to follow him as he approached a person on the other side of the room who standing alone, and oddly enough, facing to the wall up close. The mentioned person was constantly mumbling something to himself, and probably because of that, did not notice the two of them until Kenny was merely an inch behind him, placing his hand on the person's shoulder.

"Long time no see, Twee—"

"_GAH_! Jesus!"

Stan flinched as the man shrieked at the contact and the object that he was holding dropped to the floor, breaking apart with a clattering noise. The room suddenly became silent as everyone else in the place ceased to do what they were doing and stared at the source of the sudden sound.

"Jesus Christ, you scared me! What if I-_ngh_-die of a heart attack?" The man almost reprimanded Kenny upon turning around.

Instead of apologizing, Kenny smiled back. "It's good to see you too, Tweek. Glad you're…lively as ever." For some reason, he didn't seem to mind the man's odd mannerism at all. The same was true for all others in the room who now continued their own businesses. Whatever his problem was, they must be already too familiar with it to care enough.

Stan looked down at the floor to find several pieces of what used to be a coffee cup, with its steamy content splattered on the wooden flooring and now sipping through the cracks. Looking up, he identified that the man who also had blonde hair—albeit much brighter than Kenny's. Something suggested that the man was not in a normal state, though. His hands on each side of his body didn't stop swinging back and forth, his eyeballs rotated to every direction as if he were trying to assess every object around him a hundred times, his head jerked to left and right without any reason or notable pattern, his shirt was buttoned incorrectly, and most importantly, his entire body was constantly shaking. There were two possibilities: he was either seriously ill, or quite possibly, high beyond belief.

"W-what do you want from me?" he asked Kenny as if he was being threatened.

"I wanted to introduce someone to you." Kenny then beckoned Stan with his index finger and casually slung his arm onto his shoulders. "Would you like to guess who this is?"

"N-No! Don't make me guess. Guessing is too much pressure!"

_Wow_, Stan thought, _whoever this man is, he's seriously fucked up_.

"Try not to have a second heart attack." Apparently, this did not discourage his boss a bit. "He's Stanley Marsh."

"S-Stanley who?" Stan guessed that it was supposed to be a surprised expression from the man, but there was no telling—he was always twitching so fiercely that it was impossible to make out what he was thinking.

"Marsh, Tweek. M.A.R.S.H." Kenny spelled the raven's last name for the poor man. "He's the son of Randall. You remember the Marshes, don't you?"

"Jesus Christ!" _Well, there goes the surprise_. "I heard no one survived! They say the Mole chopped their bodies into pieces and fed them to sharks!" Then he glared at Stan with his eyeballs, each almost the same size to a baseball. "Oh my God! You're a zombie! You've come back from the graves to get me! Gah! I'm dead!"

"Calm down, Tweek. First, no one actually got chopped up and fed to sharks. Second, he's not a zombie. But I may be." Kenny then winked at Stan. "And most importantly, no one has a vested interest in doing such things to you. It wouldn't be exactly…uh…worth the effort." Kenny corrected in a methodical manner and looked back at Stan. "Stan, this is Tweek Tweak, director of the Southeast division and the godfather's personal secretary."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Tweak." Stan extended his hand as politely as possible, trying to conceal his judgment that he might not want to be too close to him. "Stan Marsh."

The man called Tweek, however, left Stan's hand hanging in the air while looking at his face and his hand alternately. Instead of greetings, he asked: "Have you washed your hands?"

Caught off guard at the question, Stan didn't immediately understand what he meant. "Pardon?"

"God! You didn't!" If there was an emotion written on the man's face, that would be pure fear. "Do you know how many-_ngh_-germs there are on your hands? A hundred thousand on each, man! I'll die of sepsis the instant I come into contact with them. There's no way I'm ever touching it. Nuh-uh. Not before you wash it at least three times!"

Feeling slightly irritated, Stan retrieved his extended hand from the man's side. Then he wisphered to his boss: "Do you happen to know what sepsis is?" Discovering what was going on inside his mind, his boss leaned in to whisper in reply: "Don't be offended. He does that."

Having failed at introducing the raven appropriately to the twitchy man, Kenny fake coughed a couple times to lift the mood. "Okay, I think you two can start hanging out later. Tweek, can we have a word with Mr. Tucker? I want him to meet this boy as well."

"N-Not right now. He's making an important phone call. And he'll be-_ngh_-presiding the emergency meeting when finished."

"A phone call?" Kenny knitted his brows. "To whom?"

"I-I don't know! It's supposed to be confidential. What do you want to know that for?" Then his eyes went even wider. "Oh my God! You aren't a spy, are you? You're first gonna sell the information to the DeLorns and then probably sell me for slavery at a cotton farm in Georgia! I knew it! I knew it was going to happen! TOO MUCH PRESSURE!"

_Urgh_. Stan actually developed a respect for Kenny for being able to stand a conversation with Tweek for longer than five seconds.

"Easy, Tweek. I'm not a spy, and I'm not going to sell you for slavery." Kenny soothed the spazzy one, or at least he tried. "No Southerner will be so inclined to buy one like you, anyway. You'll waste more cotton than you pick. Anyway, do arrange time for us after the meeting. I need to have a talk with Mr. Tucker about this kid."

"-_ngh_-Will do! Just keep your hands off me!" From the looks of it, Kenny's words failed to calm Tweek down so far. But then again, Stan thought that no one would really able to do just that. "G-Get your seat. The meeting will start soon. I gotta get some more coffee before_-ngh-_he comes."

As the twitchy blonde jogged his way out of their sight, Stan was left bewildered by what he just encountered.

"Sorry, Kenny. I just realized being called a zombie isn't a very sweet experience at all." That earned a chucked from his blonde boss. "What's wrong with that guy, anyway?" Stan asked while rubbing his temple, trying to relieve the mental strain caused by merely meeting him.

"It's a long story. He used to be the best hand-to-hand fighter in this whole town—way higher up there than every man in this room, myself included." Kenny answered while still looking at the direction where Tweek disappeared. "Will you believe if I tell you that he actually sparred and went neck and neck with Mr. Tucker?"

"No way!" Really?_ That spazzy guy, of all people?_ "I mean, they duked it out?"

"Sort of." Kenny sniffed. "If what I hear is right, they both ended up in hospital. And you know these cases where dudes get closer when they fight? I think that's exactly happened, as that's when they got together to expand their operations and began to send their competitors to hell one after another. Half the credit for establishing the Tucker family should go to Tweek, they say."

"I would have never guessed. He's like, the last person that I'd associate with that kind of business." Like someone said, life was full of surprises. "What really happened to him? He's so fucked up."

"Somebody slipped a neurotoxin in his morning coffee." Kenny frowned. "The doctors said it was a miracle for him to be even alive, but it ended up severely damaging his brain. That's why he's…like that."

"Jeez," So there was a story behind it. Stan began to feel a bit sorry about the man. "Did they find out who messed with his coffee?"

"No. But it was immediately after the attack on your family, so everyone presumes that it was the work of the Mole."

"Him again." For some reason, Stan didn't fail to hear that name whenever there was tragedy. He was now committed to making the last tragedy belong to the man himself. "It seems everyone in this city has something against that man in one way or another."

"The opportunity will come, I promise." Kenny put his hand on the raven's shoulder. "Right now, let's worry only about the meeting. The godfather will be here soon. Stand right behind my seat." With that, he pulled a chair from the table at the center of the room. Stan wasn't sure if Kenny possessed an ability to foresee the future, but it was exactly when someone emerged from one of the doors.

"Greetings, gentlemen. I appreciate your coming here." The newly-emerged man said, walking to his designated seat at the end of the table as other people in the room promptly ended their private talking and hurriedly took their seats or stood behind where their bosses were seated. He saw the twitchy blonde reentering the room and joining the table now with a full pot that presumably contained hot, steamy coffee within it. Stan, having no intention of messing up his first encounter with his new godfather, stood firmly behind Kenny and observed other people, especially Craig Tucker.

"As you all know, I'm not a fan of words. Our fancy little session here isn't exactly my thing." Mr. Tucker spoke with a monotone, nosy voice. "But the current circumstance calls for it, and I had no other option."

As Stan carefully examined the man who was supposed to be the first in command of this group, he found that he looked extremely young for both his position _and_ his reputation. Most of the people would put him in no more than his thirties or early forties. He had pitch black hair, much similar to Stan himself, but was more than a head taller than him. If he had to pick one particular feature out of his appearance, however, that should be the complete lack of any expression on his face. If it weren't for the eyes, he would have bought that he was wearing a mask rather than a real face.

"At 0900, we received an intelligence report that DogPoo Petuski, the young leader of Staten Island, was assassinated. Tweek will fill in the details."

"Me? Jesus, that's too much pressure!"

_Oh, not again._ Stan seriously doubted Tucker's motive behind having Tweek, of all people, do the job. Not that he had options, though. For the next five minutes or so, he was stuck in that room listening to what the spazz had to say, which was of course frequently interrupted by his sudden anxiety attacks. He was about to start banging his head against the wall when the story got to where the Petuski residence got burned down.

"Burned down?" A slightly obese man from the table stopped Tweek for the first time since the meeting started. "In this weather? That sounds improbable." Several other people nodded in approval of the question.

"Jesus, I'm not lying! T-There was an explosion!" He almost seemed about to cry. "We believe they torched the armory and the next thing we know, the whole place was gone! BOOM!" Then his complexion turned whiter than ever. "God! We have an armory down in the basement, too! When it exploded, not a piece of me will survive! Jesus, see me through this!"

The next thing the people saw was the twitchy blonde curl himself into a ball on the chair, brining an abrupt end to the briefing. This, indeed, was good news for Stan. And he had reasons to believe that he was not alone.

"I believe that's about it. Thank you, Tweek." Having determined that the mental ability of his aide was almost incapacitated, Mr. Tucker seemingly decided to take up from there. "As you may have guessed, the purpose of today's session is to determine our best response against the DeLorns' hostile actions."

That made sense. Despite the fact the Petuskis were the weakest link among the four remaining crime families, it indubitably shook up the status quo. Given Mr. Tucker's reputation, he wouldn't sidestep a direct confrontation with the Mole himself, would he?

That expectation, however, began to disintegrate at the man's next words: "So, which card do you think we should put down on our negotiation table with them?"

…_What?_ Stan wasn't sure if he heard him right. _A negotiation?_

"Cash is definitely out of the option." One of the directors wearing glasses pointed out while Stan was having difficulty assessing what really was going on. "The treasury is at all-time low. We can't afford to buy our way out as long as the current level of cash influx continues." Then he shot almost a disdainful look at Kenny. "Especially when there are some people who report zero income months after months. Don't you think, McCormick?"

"At least I don't touch kids, Nathan." Kenny retorted. "If selling kids to brothels is your version of making money, please do me a favor and count me out."

The eyes of the man called Nathan went fiery, to which Kenny responded with a similar look. The slightly obese man intervened: "I suggest you two continue your petty argument outside. None of you is helping here." Then he addressed the godfather. "Mr. Tucker, it may be a better choice to concede some of our territories. Our control on the northeast region is already contested by the DeLorns and I don't think we stand a very good chance of securing it to begin with. If we can save our lives by cutting out our tails, we should do so."

"Who gives you the authority to sell out _my_ domain?" Another man rose from his seat, his face about to blow off. "I was working my ass off to keep that one from the French hands while you were sipping martinis and harassing little girls!"

"I did what to what?" The chubby man rose from his seat as well.

"Did you think I didn't know, you slimy pedophile?"

Stan had nothing else to do than watch the session quickly degenerate into a rather childish name-calling. He, however, couldn't concentrate on what exactly they were talking about. One of the ruling families gets wiped out, and what's the only thing they do? They were more interested in appeasing the enemy to minimize the fallout to themselves than to stand against them. That was so different from what he had expected.

_Thump, Thump, Thump._

The room went gradually silent as Tucker banged on the table three times to get attention. His look, however, did not display any sense of displeasure. Looking uninterested as ever, he reopened the original subject. "I see we have difficulty reaching a consensus. Anyone with better idea than handing in cash or territory?"

Well, this might be the right time for Stan to speak up. Or at least he thought so.

"Um, aren't we planning on any kind of retaliation?"

Stan almost gasped as the entire eyes pointed to his direction immediately after he voiced his opinion. For a split second, he wasn't sure if their attention was directed to himself or Kenny who apparently chocked at his own spit upon hearing what his subordinate said. As seconds went by, however, it became clear that it was indeed Stan who was bathing in all that attention.

"Do elaborate." Tucker, along with others, locked his gaze on the raven, albeit not breaking his stoic appearance.

"*cough* Sorry, *cough* he's new to this realm." It seemed Kenny finally recovered from his chocking as he tried to provide cover for him.

"I'm not asking you, McCormick." Tucker's gaze briefly went to him and went straight back to Stan. "I don't know if I'm getting to old, but I don't quite remember you. Identify yourself."

Not sure of what to do, Stan first gave a look to his boss to gain his approval. He only earned his shrug, which conveyed the meaning of '_don't ask me! you're the one who started this!'_

Sighing, he decided to go for it. "My name's Stan Marsh. And yes, my father as Randall."

The brief silence in the room was immediately broken as people began murmuring upon hearing that. He couldn't make out all of them, but he was sure that they were talking about his supposed death at the scene ten years ago.

The bangs on the table once again sounded, and the order was quickly restored to the meeting. Tucker raised one of his brows. "From what I know, you're not supposed to be alive. How do I know that I'm not facing an impostor?"

"He's who he claims to be. I can verify." Kenny spoke up in defense of his identity.

For the first time, Stan thought he saw some kind of expression appear on his godfather, but he was not sure if he was interested or disturbed. Soon, even that brief expression disappeared.

"That explains what you've proposed." Tucker continued in his characteristically nosy voice. "Retaliation is exactly what Randall would have opted for in this situation. It seems it runs in the family, then."

"To me, it's the right choice." Stan almost felt proud at his mentioning of his father.

"Right, but stupid." Stan was a bit surprised as Tucker's words suddenly assumed a cold, cynical tone. "In this city, no one wants to shake things up, especially it involves messing with the French."

"But they shook it up first." Stan protested. "You can't let them run rampant. First, it was we Marshes. Second, Petuskis are gone. What do you think will be next? Shouldn't anyone at least try to stop them?"

"And try to be a hero? Like your father did? Please." Mr. Tucker frowned. "Let me tell you this. It was his misguided sense of righteousness that damned him and his followers to oblivion. He was the only one who stood up against the DeLorns and look what happened. He's no more, along with his followers."

"He did what he had to do." Stan was not backing down without a fight. "He followed what he believed in."

"That's the exact problem. Whenever bad things happen, you push yourself deeper and deeper into the situation. Until you pay for it with your life." He snarled. "Sometimes it's best to just walk away. That's the reason why there is not going to be any _retaliation_."

"So, what are you going to do?" Stan hissed, fully aware that this was not the most respectful way to address his first in command. "Holed up in this house, giving out your territory one after another, to live a plain and boring life?"

"Stan, that's about enough." Kenny finally intervened to prevent the conversation from getting any hotter. "I will not tolerate any more insolence—"

"Shut up, McCormick, before I make you shut up." Mr. Tucker, however, made him back away and continued the already prolonged conversation. "Yes. Nice and boring—just the way I like it. Got any problem with that, Marsh?"

"It's nothing more than an excuse! This is about more than just retaliation. It's about justice."

"Then tell me, Marsh." Tucker leaned his body forward. "Justice? Sounds good. But how many lives are you ready to sacrifice to achieve that lofty ideal? Suppose your father and you were naïve enough to believe your ideas, but what can you say about others who got killed just for being on your side? Do you really believe your silly sense of justice is worth hundreds of lives?"

"…"

If there was going to be any gotcha question that put Stan's logic in a precarious position, that would be it. Craig Tucker was right. In fact, it was the point that he had been dwelling on for quite a while. Opposing the Mole and his family would definitely spell doom for anyone who attempted to do so. As much as he wanted to have the objective of his live fulfilled, there was no doubt the endeavor will prove extremely risky and probably fatal. That was the reason why he had planned to take on his mission all by himself—he didn't want the fate of his family to befall any others he cared for.

Hearing no response from the boy, Mr. Tucker slowly regained his stoic posture. "Your father failed to protect those who followed him. I'm not making the same mistake." Then he leaned reclined back to his seat. "I understand you may have strong opinions about this matter, but as long as you remain under the roof of my house and my family, you'll abide by my rules. Consider it as a personal lesson for your new job here."

"…" Stan still refused to reply to that remark. Joining forces with Kenny, and therefore with the Tuckers, may prove to be a grave mistake.

Before the session could continue, however, there was a knock at the door to the reception area.

"Sir, a liaison from the DeLorns requests access." It was the head of security that Stan had met earlier that day.

"Let them in." Tucker ordered.

"The DeLorns? Here?" One of the directors voiced his suspicion. "They've got a lot of nerve to be showing their faces around here for sure."

"I called them in." The man 'oh'ed as his godfather revealed himself as the architect of the plan. "They wanted to settle the matter as soon as possible, to which I agreed. The session is over, gentlemen. I will take your perspectives into consideration while coming to terms with them."

As soon as he finished that line, the door opened and revealed several new figures who marched towards the room. Two of them, Stan immediately identified as their own security guards. The remaining three, on the other hand, seemed distinct from all the others present in that room, possibly due to the different color base of the clothes they were wearing: black with noticeable greenish hue. At the center of that group was a female with long, black hair. At each side of her were two men who seemed to be her entourage.

While he was examining the newly-advent party to the group, Kenny grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled him down and whispered. "You already managed to embarrass me and yourself enough today, Stan. Don't do anything stupid. You don't want to aggravate her."

"…Why not?" Stan replied unimpressed. It was already apparent that he would not be able to pull anything out of this given what Craig Tucker warned.

"That's Wendy fucking DeLorn, the wife of Gregory. If you touch her, you're messing with the right arm of the Mole himself."

"…That's all the more reason to bring her down at once."

"I swear to God, if you pull more street performance today, I'll get you before you get anyone."

Stan sighed at the sight of Kenny glaring daggers at him. Earlier that day, it felt like he earned several valuable allies in his lonely fight against the one man he was seeking revenge against. Right now, it was as if everyone that he thought was his friend turned against him.

"Did I disturb your time together, gentlemen?" The woman who Kenny identified as Wendy DeLorn said entering the area. Despite the semblance of politeness, Stan could feel the sense of high pride and arrogance emanating from her.

"Not at all, Madame, it's glad to see you again." Craig Tucker himself addressed the woman. "I must say that I expected your husband to show up, though."

"Gregory is busy tonight. Then again, he always is." She walked towards the crowd elegantly. "I was given the full authority for conducting negotiations with your family on behalf of our leadership today. I hope you don't have anything against talking to a woman on the equal footing."

"I don't. Now, if you'd please." Tucker emerged from his seat. "We've just finished up our own discussion here. The rest of the negotiation process will be better done in a more private setting."

"Always as wise, Mr. Tucker." She wore a satisfied smile. "Your clan will prosper under your rule, much unlike Petuskis, or…" Then, she said something that would anger Stan to no end. "Marshes, for that matter."

…

_What the fuck did she just say?_ Stan thought.

Or he thought so. From the way everyone else was looking at him—for the second time that day—, he realized that his thought actually escaped his mouth in a verbal form without him even recognizing it. Then he heard a small thudding sound that Kenny made as he banged his head to the table, mumbling '_Jesus, either kill him or kill me._'

"Well, that certainly is harsh." Wendy didn't erase her smile from her face even after being insulted by the raven. "Is that the way you treat ladies? What a shame for such a good looking man."

"Of course I—ouch!" Stan's reply was cut short as a sharp pain invaded him. Looking down, he found that Kenny's patience had finally been depleted and that he was stepping on his foot, facing him with his glaring eyes.

"That's it, Stan Marsh!" Stan had never seen his boss this angry before. "I hereby forbid you from speaking another single word! That's a fucking order! Got it?"

In his aggravate state, Kenny didn't really notice that he gave Stan's identity away.

"…Marsh?" Of course there was no way for the woman not to notice. "This surely gets more and more interesting."

Kenny just realized what he had done and slapped his own forehead. "Look what you did to me." He took several heavy breaths before he opened his mouth again. "I'm out. You clean up your own shit." After whispering that, he almost crawled his way to the door and disappeared outside.

"Well, that's surely a surprise. Gregory did tell me that there was no one Marsh left in this city." She almost taunted Stan to strangle her neck with her mockery. "Although I have to confess that I'm unfamiliar with any Stan. Care to enlighten me?"

"Don't worry, you'll learn soon." Stan snarled. "I promise each and every DeLorn will grow to fear my name one day. And I'm a man of my word." With that, he quickly ran past her to follow his boss out of the room. He didn't know what he would do if he stayed with her for too long. Surprisingly enough, Craig Tucker had been watching the whole ordeal with his indifferent look even when Stan came dangerously close to ruining a deal that might spell life-or-death decision for his clan.

He heard Madame DeLorn scoff as he was closing the door behind him. "I doubt I'll ever see that day." And that the was the last thing he heard from her from that encounter. He normally would have tried to decipher the ulterior meaning of the phrase, but he just didn't have enough patience to do so.

Trying hard to shake off the lingering aura of that lady, Stan looked around to locate his missing boss. The task was not hard, as he easily found him banging his head against the wall. Hurriedly advancing right next to him. Realizing that he had caused lots of problems for his boss, he determined that an apology was in order. He was about to do just that when he put his hand on his shoulder. "Kenny—"

"Don't. Touch. Me." Stan was forced to withdraw his hand as his boss spoke with venom. "I'm starting to doubt if bringing you here was a wise decision. Until I figure that out, I'm not talking to you."

"…I understand." Stan really did. As he brought up the fresh memory of that day, he did quite a bit of acting up after getting here. And Kenny turned out to be the biggest victim here. Stan couldn't feel worse about himself, and he thought it wouldn't be so different for his boss.

_Maybe I need to chill out first_.

"Kenny, do you know where the bathroom is?" It would be the last question before Stan left him alone without further bothering him.

"I'm not telling you." The only answer from him was that methodical line.

The raven sighed. Guess he'll have to find it out himself. It surely would be a difficult job as there were no particular signs denoting restrooms in the house. The door to the bathroom looked exactly the same as the door to a bathroom. Maybe he should start searching on the second flo—

"I'm not telling you it's the last door on your left on the second floor." Fortunately, Kenny once again did him a favor by saving him the burden. After what he did to him that day, that's more than what Stan deserved from him.

"Thank you." Stan developed a bitter smile towards his boss, which was completely ignored by the intended target.

"I'm not going to say you're welcome." Although he finally stopped torturing himself by making his head make contacts with the wall, he still refused to look back at the raven's direction.

Erasing the smile from his face, Stan slowly proceeded to the stairs leading up to the second floor. There were not a whole lot of things that he could do except to leave his boss alone and hope that he would feel better as time went by.

The sound of his shoes making contact with the wooden floor echoed through the empty hall as he walked towards where Kenny had told him the bathroom was located. Recollecting the day's events, Stan realized how many things happened at the same time after he arrived at the city. He was involved in a bar fight, then he had a little 'family' reunion with his old acquaintance. Somehow this acquaintance successfully persuaded him to join his crew, but things really began to descend into chaos as soon as he arrived at this place. He first had an argument with his new godfather—wow.—and still then almost ruined a critical negotiation process that might have cost lives.

Stan held down his head the entire time as he approached the restroom. Everything was happening at too fast a rate for him. If there was only one thing he needed at the moment, that was some time to calm himself down and try to assess the current situation. So, the Tuckers have opted for a peaceful resolution with the DeLorns, much to Stan's dismay. Would his personal plan of wreaking vengeance upon the Mole ever succeed if the clan that he belonged to shook hands with his ultimate enemy? Not very likely. But then again, what could he do? Stan immersed himself in deep thought as he heard his footsteps being reverberated by the walls.

…It was right then that he realized that he was not alone. Yes, he did hear his walking sound bouncing back and forth from the walls. The problem was that the sound was slightly but clearly duplicated. For every one step he took, he heard the echoing sound of two.

He then remembered the last thing Wendy DeLorn had told him.

_I doubt I'll ever see that day_.

Stan scoffed. She made it perhaps a little bit too obvious.

_No need to guess._ Stan thought. _That bitch sent one of his aides to clean the last Marsh up. Such a daring move in this place._

In order to test his theory, Stan deliberately controlled the pace of his walking, slowing down or quickening up to make it difficult for his possible follower to synchronize steps with him. That proved to be effective, as he definitely noticed the gap in the sounds between the change-ups in the speed.

The answer became clear: he was being followed, presumably by one of the DeLorn thugs.

Saliva began to moisten up the inside of his mouth and his heartbeat rate skyrocketed. He didn't carry any weapon to defend himself: everything was happening in a rush, so Kenny must have forgotten to issue him one. If it was a trained assassin that trailed his back, he might have to endure a difficult, prolonged fight.

He fought every urge to turn around to face whoever was tracing his back. From the way the follower tried to hide his existence, he or she did not want Stan to recognize the fact that there was a company to his little trip to the bathroom. In this scenario, the best trick he could pull was to pretend not to have noticed the tracking. Stan continued to contemplate and decided that the most ideal time to catch the follower was he entered the bathroom unsuspectingly.

Acting as natural as he could, Stan reached the end of the hallway and took a left turn to enter the bathroom. He briefly considered locking the door upon making it inside, but a clumsy door lock wouldn't put up much of a fight if someone that he was about to confront was really willing to do harm. Bailing that option, Stan instead installed himself inside one of the toilet stalls and closed the stall door.

From there he waited for the slimy stalker. He couldn't hear anything for the first couple of minutes, but he definitely began to hear muffled footsteps starting from a distance but getting closer and closer. The bathroom door made noises as it slowly opened and closed. There was a clicking sound of the door lock as the follower apparently opted to lock themselves up before he could kill Stan off for good.

The tiles on the floor of the bathroom made it much easier hear the intruder's footsteps. Stan controlled his breath so that the person on the other side of the stall door couldn't locate him. The footsteps now reached about the center of the restroom, where it suddenly stopped. The came almost a whispering voice: "…Marsh?"

It was the right time.

"Arrrgh!"

Stan jerked the stall door open and charged to the unsuspecting figure with every might he could muster from his body. The opponent was caught off-guard and was immediately knocked backwards. Without losing the perfect chance, Stan garnered the momentum to actually pin the man against the wall, placing his both hands around his neck so that he can choke him to death whenever the circumstance called for it.

"Who are you?" Stan demanded fiercely. "Why are you following me?"

The figure squeaked, coughing constantly, but not being able to produce comprehensible words. Maybe Stan was being too forceful with his hands. As he loosened the grab a little, the man took heavy breaths to provide precious oxygen to his lungs. The raven decided to give him some time to regain his composure.

""I…Mean…No harm…" the man gasped along with his answer. "I don't carry… any weapon. Check for yourself."

Determining that the man did not pose an immediate threat, Stan let go of his neck and patted down the figure in a search for any concealed weapon. He didn't find any.

"See? Now can you let me go so that we can have a talk?" The man spread out his arms innocently.

Seeing no deception going on, Stan did let go of the man. Taking a few step backwards, he began to question his intentions of following him.

"What do you want?"

"First, I need to make sure you are who you claim to be. Are you really Stanley Marsh, the son of Randall Marsh?"

"I am."

"What was your mother's name?"

"Sharon."

"Sister?"

"Shelly."

"Brother?"

"Never had one."

"Puppy dog?"

"Sparky."

"Does the name Henrietta ring a bell?"

"Sure. She made the world's best oatmeal."

The man exhaled excitedly. "You are indeed Stan Marsh. But I thought you were dead."

Stan was growing absolutely tired of the same reaction that people made when they found out who he was. "Please, can we not repeat this shit again and just get straight to the point?"

The excited look on the man's face was quickly washed away. "I only wanted to warn you." He straightened up his wrinkled clothing. "Your life is in danger. You must leave this premise immediately."

"And tell me anything I don't know." Stan retorted. "If that's the only news you wanted to break to me, you could have just told me, instead of being sneaky like this."

"I couldn't. I'm acting on my own. Madame DeLorn cannot know that we met here."

_Acting on his own? _There goes the 'assassin sent by that bitch' theory.

"What's your purpose? You work with the DeLorns, and that makes us committed enemies. What's in your interest to protect me even if there's danger ahead?"

The man stared at Stan. "Let's just say I've known you for a very long time. If you want to live, leave this building before midnight. Go as far away from the building as possible. That's the only way. I'm risking a lot by telling you this."

Stan stood there assessing what he just said. All his senses indicated that the man was saying the truth. Then it _did_ mean that his life was seriously threatened. There was, however, another thing that drew his attention.

His eyes.

Stan instinctively moved closer to the man in order to get a better look at the man's glowing eyes. The figure noticed something was off and tried to back off, but the wall behind him prevented him from doing so.

Now Stan looked directly into the man's eyes. Green. Not a very common color these days. He didn't remember a whole lot of people who had green eyes, but he needed more clues.

In a sudden movement, Stan snatched the hat on the man's head that had been denying him a look at his hair. It was dark red. Slightly curly. Still not a very common combination.

That was enough evidence gathered. Green eyes, curly hair in dark red color, and someone who had known Stan for a long time. As long as his memory was concerned, there was only one match that he could retrieve from his old memories.

"Kyle." It was the one Stan had been hoping to meet the entire time, but at the same time was the one he never expected to see as well. "Kyle Broflovski."

His green eyes stirred. Or for a better description, they were engulfed in a whirlwind. "I-I don't know anyone by that name."

"Forget it. You can never fool me, Kyle." Stan didn't know how to describe his exact feeling right now. Pleasure for finally meeting his super best friend? Or sadness to see him turned into a foe after all those years? But one thing was for sure: he was never letting go of this opportunity. "After all, we used to be super best friends. We knew every secret of each other."

The redhead's gaze fell to the ground. He stood there breathing steadily, but not saying anything out loud.

"Kyle?" Stan reduced the gap between them and placed his hands on his each shoulder. "Talk to me. Please."

After some long pause, there came a sniffle from the redhead, along with a 'damnit' that was barely audible to both of them. As he slowly raised his head up, it revealed that those green eyes were now moistened up a bit. Taking a heavy breath, he finally opened his mouth.

"Hi, Stan." He forced a bitter smile, which didn't last very long. "Sorry we couldn't meet at a better time."

**XxXxX**

**A/N: Sorry for another lazy update there. I'm quickly running out of excuses, so I'm going to admit that I've been holding a secret: I have a Ph. D. in Procrastination. If there ever was a Nobel Prize for putting the most things off, I'm going to make a very promising contestant.**

**Two things: first, believe it or not, this chapter got very long as well—even longer than the last one! I wasn't exactly expecting this to happen. I always believe 3-4K is just the right amount of words for one chapter. For one, that's as far as the attention span of normal people would go. With a 9K chapter, people are just tempted to jump over boring sections, which is not a very good sign for an AU fic where the smallest details make big differences. There are several amazing writers who can grab the attention of readers the whole time while writing a 15k long chapter—I know I'm not one of them, so I really need to keep this concise and engaging. Except that's not happening here very often. I do have an extreme tendency to enlarge—sometimes unnecessarily—every story I write, which is painful because I type like five letters in an hour. But enough of that whining.**

**I know I absolutely bombarded you with so many encounters with new characters in this chapter. Hope you didn't get lost. There's the brief joking scene with the Kenny crews, the first encounter with Tweek, the confrontation with Craig, and then Wendy appears, and of course, we have Kyle at last. I really should have split this chapter off, but if I did that, I'll probably end up producing forty chapters or so. I already have the basic synopsis all the way up to Ch.20, the epilogue, and really want to finish this up before next fall when I'll be forced to retire from writing stuffs. More on that later. You probably have noticed that some of the main/recurring characters are yet to be sighted, but please rest assured: they will be here, with the possible exception of Timmy who doesn't really fit into a rather serious story like this. And no, the slightly obese man from the meeting is NOT Clyde.**

**Once again, I would never have pulled it off without the warm support of reviewers: kenny and kyle; Molala24; lily's mom09; A.T. Vio; simply anonymous; and Little Wolf Vamp Hearts Yaoi. I'm super stoked that there are people who like what I write. I'm planning to work on another short Style story while doing YHIM, so hope you'll like it when it's up!**

**Why do I only write Style? Well, don't be grossed out, but I actually had a crush on my best friend in high school. So I kinda know how it feels, perhaps better than anyone. No, I kept it forever as a secret—I live in a place where 'freaks' like me are condemned as social disease and are publicly executed, and I wasn't quite willing to risk my life. Let me know if you'd like to hear more—I probably can update my profiles.**

**Cheers,**

**-Jack Colquitt.**


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